Great Stories of Space Travel

by Groff Conklin (Editor)

  “What’s the reason for the differential between Class III and Class II? It’s that Class I and II houses are largely prefabbed, and the Class Ill’s are individually built and fitted. We still use carpenters, glaziers, masons, welders, electricians. So, the problem was to find a structural method that would preserve individuality, but cut construction costs. I found the answer. So far as I know it’s completely revolutionary.” There was a short pause. Angker sat staring like a mahogany jinni.

  “I’ve tried it on a small scale,” Farrero went on, his voice rather more brittle. “It works. For foundations, instead of concrete sills or piers, we fuse the earth under the house with an atomic torch. Then on this glass, flint, slag—whatever you want to call it—we joint up a frame of hyproberyl tubing, stretch Caltonite fabric over it taut. Then we spray on the wall—quick-dry. Also the partitions. The floors come as standard steel sections. The wiring, plumbing, radiants, ventilation, filters are naturally laid out first. Frame, Caltonite fabric, spray, and there’s the house, everything but the finish.”

  “Windows? Doors?”

  “Slice ’em out with a torch, set the sills in with a little more quick-dry.”

  Angker nodded. “Sounds reasonable. Seems like you’d save a lot of time with the utilities, too.” He scratched his chin with the pencil. He leaned abruptly forward. “You shouldn’t have given Westgeller the estimate till you checked with the office.”

  Farrero opened his eyes, raised his eyebrows. “That’s my job,”—with a glibness of forethought. “That’s what you’re paying me for. Designing, estimating, selling.”

  “This is different. You’re not acting for the company’s best interests. You’ve cost us—thirty-one from forty-four—13,000 munits.”

  Farrero shrugged. “The company’s making ten per cent. My instructions were to quote estimated cost plus ten per cent.”

  When Angker was aroused, his dog-brown eyes glowed with russet lights. Now he put his hands on the edge of the desk, and Farrero, with an inward quiver, gazing deep into Angker’s eyes, saw the russet flicker.

  “Ten per cent,” said Angker thickly, “is a rough basis for operation. However, you’re supposed to exercise judgment. This is a money-making concern. We guarantee our customers quality, nothing else. If our price suits ’em, fine. If it doesn’t, there’s nineteen other outfits with the same kind of license we’ve got. I could have sold that house, for 40,000 and Westgeller would be getting a bargain. You told him 32,000. You’re costing us 8,000 munits. I don’t like it.”

  “You forget,” said Farrero, getting to his feet, “that what makes this saving is my private idea. I worked it out.”

  “On company time.”

  Farrero flushed. “I built a small scale section with company equipment, for company protection—To check the idea, and see whether it was a lemon or not. The scheme was completely formulated before I even left the Institute. In any event, the patent is in my j name.”

  “Well,” said Angker heavily, “you’ll have to sign it over to Marlais & Angker.”

  “Hah!” Farrero thrust his hands in his pockets. “You think I’m crazy?”

  Angker wrenched off the polarizers. “Farrero, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “You’ve put in four years at the Institute, studying Class III technique, right?”

  “That’s what my license reads.”

  “So it would be just four years wasted if you couldn’t get a job with any Class III outfit?”

  Farrero said, “I’ve got lots of ideas. Maybe I’ll start an outfit of my own.”

  Angker chuckled. “Your license doesn’t say that. It gives you authority to plan, to design, to sell. Marlais & Angker hold the license to build. Those licenses are hard to come by nowadays. Without it you can’t contract to build an igloo at the North Pole.”

  “Very true,” said Farrero dryly. “So?”

  “So—any process developed during your employment with us becomes our property. You get a bonus, of course. There’s a hundred legal precedents to back | me up.”

  “If,” Farrero interposed tautly, “I developed the process working for you—which I did not.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Farrero met the russet lights. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve been talking about it for two years. It’s a good idea. It’ll bring Class III construction within reach of a lot of Class II incomes.”

  Angker smiled a glittering hypnotic smile. “Let ’em buy Class II houses—from our affiliate XAB Company. Maybe we’ll cut prices in Class II.”

  Farrero took a half step forward. “What kind of talk is that? Does public welfare mean anything to you, at all? You want to take money without giving anything; you’re no better than a pickpocket!” Angker pushed his knuckles on the desk till they became white buttons. “Get your check from Dempster. You’re through, Farrero. You’re through in the whole construction game. I’ll see . . . I’ll make it my business to see that you never work for any other outfit in the world.”

  “You think you’ll turn my idea over to your engineers,” jeered Farrero. “Go ahead, let ’em try it. Think I was fool enough to tell you anything important?” “What more is there?” asked Angker, leaning back in his chair with a half grin.

  “Ever try to spray a right angle onto a building? No? Go ahead, try.” And Farrero laughed. He stopped. “Sure. Go ahead, try. I’ve got the patent. I’ll throw so many writs and attachments and subpoenas at you, you’ll think it’s snowing.”

  “We’ll see,” said Angker. “Meantime, go out and herd sheep if you want to eat—because I promise you’ll never work construction again.”

  Farrero looked at his fingernails. “Remember what I said about organizing my own outfit?”

  Angker pursed his thick lips into a ridiculous smirk. “Have you forgotten the little detail of the license? You haven’t got one. You can’t get one. There’s none being issued. Without a license you can’t build a doghouse to sell, anywhere on Earth, Venus, the Moon.” “Sounds pretty definite, doesn’t it?” mocked Farrero.

  “Go back to Tek, Farrero. Put in another four years on something else. Hydroponics. Protolectrics. Because in construction you’re done.”

  “Angker,” said Farrero, “you just listened to one of my ideas. I’ve got others. Better ones. Before I’m done I’ll have cost you so much money, you’ll wish you’d taken me in as a partner. Remember that, Angker.”

  He left the office.

  Angker sat staring at the screen, where without polarizers, the image was a chaotic blur. He touched a button. A soft voice said “Yes?”

  “Did you hear this last interview?”

  “No,” said Marlais.

  “I’ll run it off for you—quite a lot in it.” He pulled open a drawer, twisted a dial, pulled a knob. The mag-nowire reeled backward to where Farrero had entered the office; then, pulling its impressions past the detector, it echoed for Marlais’ ears the entire interview.

  “What do you think?” Angker asked the unseen Marlais.

  There was a pause, and Angker waited with an anxiety which might have appeared odd to his subordinates.

  “Well, Douane,” presently came Marlais’ soft voice, “you probably could have handled him more smoothly . . . aggression, stubbornness, overt hostility—” his voice trailed off to a whisper. Then: “We’d have a hard time proving ownership of the patent. However, it may be for the best. The industry is stable and comfortable. We’re all making money. No telling where the disruption might take us. Perhaps we’d better call a meeting of the association, lay the cards on the table. I think everyone will contract neither to hire Farrero nor use his process.”

  Angker made a doubtful noise.

  “You see,” said Marlais, with a gentle edge to his voice, “there are twenty companies in the association.

  The chance of Farrero’s approaching any given firm is only one in nineteen. We don’t count. Consequently, every operator, to protect himself, will be glad
to sign a contract. It might be wise to keep a watch on Farrero, to see what he’s up to. He sounded like a young man of determination.”

  The next day about eleven o’clock Angker called his secretary. “Get me Westgeller.”

  “Yes, sir . . . there’s a call coming in for you right now, Mr. Angker. In fact it’s Mr. Westgeller himself.” “Well, put him on.”

  Laurin Westgeller’s face appeared on Angker’s screen—fat, friendly, with little twinkling blue eyes. “Mr. Angker,” said Westgeller, “I’ve decided to have you go no further with my job. You can send me a bill for your work to date.”

  Angker sat glowering at the image. He had been on the point of notifying Westgeller that Marlais & Angker could not build for less than 45,000 munits, had fully expected a cancellation. Westgeller’s beating him to the punch left him puzzled, resentful.

  “What’s the matter? Price too high?” he asked sarcastically.

  “No,” replied Westgeller, “the price hardly enters into the picture. In fact, I plan to spend 300,000 munits on a house.”

  Angker’s jaw slacked. “300,000 munits? Who . . . I mean, shall I send you out a consultant?”

  “No,” said Laurin Westgeller. “I’ve already signed —with one of your late employees, Mr. Farrero, who’s going into business for himself.”

  Angker stared. “Farrero? Why, Farrero has no license to build! The minute he drives a stake into the ground he’s liable for a ten thousand munit fine!” Westgeller nodded. “So he informed me. Thank you, however, for your advice. Good day.” The screen blurred, sank through the pink after-image to blank ground glass.

  Angker blurted the news through to Marlais.

  “There’s nothing we can do until Farrero tries to fulfill the contract,” said Marlais. “When and if he makes an illegal move, we file charges.”

  Angker grunted, shook his head. “He’s got something up his sleeve. Farrero’s not crazy.”

  “Nobody who gets 300,000 munit contracts is crazy,” said the soft voice. “But all we can do is wait, see what his plans are. You’ve got an investigator on

  “Yes—Lescovic. He worked for us in that New Zealand deal.”

  “Yes, I remember. I’ll be interested to learn what Farrero has in mind.”

  Two hours later, Angker’s telescreen buzzer sounded.

  “Yes?” snarled Angker.

  “A Mr. Lescovic, sir.”

  “Put him on.” The face of the investigator appeared —a passive, fat, dark-eyed face, with wide red lips and a button nose.

  “Well?”

  “Farrero’s slipped us.”

  The spasmodic jerk of Angker’s arms shoved him back in the chair. “Where . . . how did this happen?” “About an hour ago. We dusted his clothes with F-radiant powder, and following him was easy with an F-detector. He walked into the Transport Union, and into a public lavatory. I waited across the lobby, watching the screen. He showed like a big ball of fire. He moved around a little, then was still. When he didn’t move after ten minutes, I got suspicious, went to look. His clothes were hung on a hook, but Farrero, no. He gave us the clean slip.”

  Angker slapped the desk. “Find him, then!” “There’re four operatives on the case right now, sir.”

  “Call me as soon as you get anything.”

  Six months later the call came through. The buzzer sounded late in the afternoon. Angker hardly looked up from a model of a Caribbean island. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Lescovic calling.”

  Angker looked up, rubbed his jaw. “Lescovic?” “The detective, Mr. Angker.”

  “Oh yes.” Angker pulled the case from its mental pigeonhole. “Put him through.”

  The fat bland face appeared on the screen. “Farrero’s back in town.”

  “When did he get back?”

  “Well, evidently during the week.”

  “Find out where he’s been?”

  “No word on that.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s calling on Franklin Kerry, of Kerry Armatures. Been there two hours.”

  “Kerry! Why, Kerry’s one of our clients! At least he’s looking over our bid for building his house.” Lescovic let a spark of interest, show in his careful dark eyes. “He’s got plenty of money—registered at the Gloriana.”

  Angker said. “Hold on a minute.” He flipped a switch, reported to Marlais.

  Marlais was noncommittal. “We’ve nothing to go on. We’ll have to wait, see what happens.”-

  Angker brought back Lescovic’s placid face. “Watch him. Report everything he does. Find out what he wants with Kerry.”

  “Yes, sir.” The screen faded.

  Angker slammed into Marlais’ office. “Well, he’s done it again.”

  Marlais had been sitting in half-darkness, gazing through the window, out across the many-tiered city, out to the dusk-hung horizon. He slowly turned His head.

  “I presume you mean Farrero.”

  Angker stamped back and forth. “Glochmeinder this time. Last month it was Crane. Before that, Hag-garty.” He came to an abrupt halt, cursed Farrero with fluid vindictiveness, resumed his pacing. “He doesn’t go near any of the small ones, but just let us get wind of a big account—”

  “What did Glochmeinder say?”

  “Just what Kerry and Crane and Haggarty and Desplains and Churchward and Klenko and Westgeller said. He’s given his contract to Farrero, and that’s all he’ll say.”

  Marlais rose to his feet, rubbed his chin. “There’s a leak in the office. Somewhere.”

  The muscles roped around Angker’s mouth. “I’ve been trying to find it. When I do—” He slowly clenched and unclenched his hand in the air.

  Marlais turned back to the window. “No word from the detective?”—from over his shoulder.

  “I gave you his last report. Farrero’s been ordering all over the world—construction materials and landscaping supplies. He’s got fifteen hundred men working for him, according to the Department of Labor Statistics, but we can’t find where—and there’s not a job going that isn’t a legitimate, licensed affair.”

  “Clever,” mused Marlais, toying with the massive blue spinel he used for a paper weight.

  “He’s cost us a half million munits,” gloomed Angker.

  Marlais smiled wanly. “Just as he threatened, just so.” And he laughed at Angker’s quick glare.

  For a moment there was silence. Angker paced the floor heavily. Marlais let the smoke from his cigarette trickle up through his finger, lose itself in the halfdarkness of the room.

  “Well,” said Marlais, tamping out the cigarette, “something must be done.”

  Farrero found himself an office, a two-room suite in the Atlantica Tower, facing west across Amargosa Park, with the Pylon of All Nations thrusting magnificently high in the distance. He also found him

  self a receptionist, and this was Miss Flora Gustafsson, who claimed Scandinavian ancestry, and had long birch-blond hair, with eyes blue as Folda Fjord, to prove it. She was hardly bigger than a kitten, but everything about her matched, and she was efficient with the detectives.

  The teleview buzzed. Flora reached over, screened the caller. “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Westgeller. I’ll put you through to Mr. Farrero.”

  “Thank you,” said Westgeller. Flora looked sharply at the image, buzzed Farrero.

  “Hello, Mr. Westgeller,” said Farrero. “What can I do for you?”

  “Farrero, an old friend of mine, John Etcheverry, wants to build, and I’m sending him around to see you.”

  “Oh ... ah, fine, Mr. Westgeller. I’ll try to accommodate him, though we’re pretty busy.”

  “Good day, Farrero,” and Westgeller abruptly left the screen. Farrero sat stroking his chin, smiling faintly. Then he went into the outer room, kissed Flora.

  John Etcheverry was about sixty, tall, thin, pale as a heron. He had a large egg-shaped head, sparse white hair that disobeyed his scalp in damp unruly tendrils. His eyes, set in dark concavities,
never seemed to blink. His cheeks were wan, minutely etched. He had large ears with long pale lobes, and a long pale nose that twitched when he spoke.

  “Have a seat,” said Farrero. “I understand you’re planning to build.”

  “That’s right. May I smoke?”

  “Certainly. Cigar? Try one of mine.”

  Etcheverry lit up.

  “What do you have in mind? I might as well warn you that my prices come high. I deliver, but it costs a lot of money.”

  Etcheverry made a brief gesture with his fingers. “I want a country place, seclusion, quiet. I’m prepared to pay for it.”

  Farrero tapped the desk with a pencil once or twice, laid it down, sat back, quietly watched Etcheverry.

  Etcheverry puffed on the cigar. “Westgeller tells me you’ve satisfied him very well. In fact, that’s all he’ll say.”

  Farrero nodded. “It’s in the contract. I needed time to protect myself. Now I hardly care any more. I’m just waiting for a call from Capitol City, and then, so far as I’m concerned, I’ll drop all secrecy.” He leaned forward, pointed the pencil at Etcheverry’s narrow chest. “You see, I’ve got enemies. Twenty Class III licensed structors want my blood. Marlais & Angker in particular. I’ve had to take precautions. Like for instance—” he pressed the stud and Flora’s arch face looked out from the screen. “Get me Westgeller at his office.”

  Etcheverry chewed his cigar reflectively.

  A moment passed. The buzzer sounded. Flora’s face returned to the screen. “Mr. Westgeller hasn’t been in his office today.”

  Farrero nodded. “It’s not important.” He turned back to Etcheverry. “Excuse me ... a habit left over from the early stages of the game. Endless caution, endless foresight. It all helped then. You’d be surprised the phonies that Marlais & Angker threw at me.”

  “You have a license?” Etcheverry delicately inspected the tips of his shoes through the cigar smoke.

  “No.”

  “Then you build illegally?”

  “No.”

  Etcheverry pursed his lips. “You’ll have to explain.”

  Farrero stared thoughtfully out the window. “Um . . . how much time can you spare?”