“How’s that?” Jo asked, puzzled.
“I was, at first, a little surprised that you knew about the gate but then I realized that IBA has far-reaching contacts. The fact that you were interested enough in the gate to come here and try to get ‘in on the kill’ is proof that its success is guaranteed. IBA rarely takes on losers.”
Jo was tempted to say that IBA had a reputation for turning losers into winners but decided it wasn’t worth the effort to explain. She merely shrugged. IBA could have done a lot for him but under no circumstances could she work with a man such as Haas. She merely shrugged and headed for the door.
“And there’s one thing you forgot,” Haas said with a gloat in his voice.
Jo gave him a questioning glance.
“Military contracts! You forgot about military contracts! The gate is perfect for supply and personnel transport on a military scale!”
She wanted to laugh in his face. The Federation forces would, of course, be glad to know that such a thing as the warp gate was available, but they’d need very few in peacetime and the prospect of a war was highly unlikely.
“Yes,” he went on, beaming, “I don’t think there will be any problem in getting those initial orders. We’ll just have to sit back and watch them roll in.”
Jo left the warehouse in a daze. How did people like Haas get into business? He was, no doubt, a brilliant designer and theorist—the existence of the gate proved that—but he had no idea of the economic forces he would be up against. IBA could have helped, could have mounted a campaign to convince the backwater planets to purchase their own gates to cheapen import costs. This might have got Haas over the hump; but without the man’s cooperation such a plan was out of the question. As things stood now, SW would wipe the company off the map in no time and deBloise and his circle would lose a pile of money.
But according to Haas, deBloise was well aware of this idiocy. That didn’t make sense. She had done some research on deBloise and he had proven to be an extremely crafty man who planned well and covered all exits. Involvement in this fiasco-to-be was highly out of character and that bothered Jo, bothered her very much.
Returning to Ragna, Jo filled Old Pete in on the details and he was none too happy with the situation either.
“It doesn’t fit, Jo,” he said. “I’ve been watching deBloise carefully ever since he made political hay out of Junior’s death and this isn’t like him at all. I don’t like it.”
“Well, there are only two possible answers,” Jo sighed. “He has either made a big mistake this time and completely underestimated the situation, or he knows something we don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about making a choice, Jo; the answer is simple: he knows something we don’t—he must!” The old man shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Imagine Denver Haas thinking that military contracts would pull him through! Ha! There’s no one to fight! I mean, who are we going to go to war with, the Tarks?”
Jo had been reaching for the handle of one of her desk drawers but froze at the mention of the Tarks. Old Pete noted the arrested movement.
“Don’t be silly, Jo,” he said. “The Federation may not be on the best terms with the Tarks but there’s no war in sight. There are economic and territorial disputes and it may eventually come to blows but not in the near future.” He turned toward the door. “And deBloise and his faction are nowhere near powerful enough to start one. That’s a blind alley, I’m afraid.’
Jo smiled and nodded. “I guess you’re right. I’ll see you later.” But when he was gone her demeanor changed. She leaped upon the intercom. “Find William Grange—tell him to drop whatever he’s doing and get to my office immediately.” She cut off without waiting for a reply.
The Tarks were the key. Old Pete had been right about the war aspect: there was no way deBloise could start a war. But the pieces had suddenly fallen together for Jo—at least she hoped they had—and what she saw was a most ingenious, devious plan. Denver Haas had given her all the pieces and Old Pete had brought in the catalyst: the Tarks.
She couldn’t help but smile with admiration as she considered all the delicate aspects of the insidious plot. This deBloise character was a truly remarkable man. The Restructurists were lucky to have him on their side. But the Federation had Josephine Finch.
Grange came in then. “You wanted to see me, Miss Finch?”
“Yes, Bill. I need some quick information on SW.”
Grange visibly relaxed at this statement and took a seat. He knew more about Star Ways than many of its board members. The company had been the first to develop a commercial interstellar warp unit and quickly changed its name from Heller Technical to the more picturesque Star Ways Corporation. Through innovative marketing and financial maneuvers and the tried and true business practice of hiring the best and making it worth their while to stay on, Star Ways had securely placed itself in the number one spot as far as gross income was concerned. The corporation had never needed the services of IBA.
“What specifically do you want to know? I could talk all day.”
“I know you could,” Jo replied with a smile. “But I want to know SW’s two top subsidiaries—not necessarily the most active but the ones most important to the gross income.”
“The first is easy: their tube-drive company. When they acquired that they really began to move because they could outfit ships for both interstellar and peristellar travel. They have a number of fair-sized competitors . . . Fairgood is giving them the best fight they’ve had in years.” He beamed as he said this; Fairgood was an IBA account.
“The second most important subsidiary is a debatable choice. General Trades generates a lot of income on luxury items but there’s that pharmaceutical company they acquired a while back—Teblinko Drugs—that’s been a thorn in their side. They had to pour a lot of money into it but things seem to be paying off at last. Latest figures show that it’s pulled up behind Opsal Pharmaceuticals which makes it the number two drug firm. So I’d say that Teblinko and General Trades are of equal importance at the moment, but once Teblinko consolidates its gains its well-being will be somewhat less crucial to overall profits.”
Jo nodded and made a few notes.
“What’s this all about?” he asked. Jo had decided to keep her counterplan to herself. She was debarking on a precarious course of action, the repercussions of which might well reverberate throughout the whole galactic economic structure; the fewer who knew about it the better.
“Just working out a theoretical problem,” she replied. “You’ve been a big help. May I call on you again if I need you?”
“Sure,” Grange replied, taking the hint and rising. He was too canny to be fooled by Jo’s lame explanation—you weren’t told to drop everything and get up to the head office because of a theoretical problem—but he was confident of being filled in on all the details if and when he came to be involved.
When he had gone, Jo ordered the complete files on Fairgood Drive and Opsal Pharmaceuticals; both were long-standing IBA accounts. She began poring over them as soon as they arrived.
With the Fairgood file was an envelope with new information: a natural deposit of Leason crystals had been found on the second planet of the Rako system—the Tarks, however, were also claiming the find since Rako occupies a place along the mutual expansion border. To further complicate matters, consent for export had to be obtained from the inhabitants—a group of senile savages.
Jo shook her head and put the file aside. That would take a very careful evaluation. Now to look at Opsal. Opsal and Teblinko were in a pitched battle for the galactic pharmaceutical trade. The two companies were about equal in product quality but Opsal had a slight advantage in distribution since it was slightly older. Teblinko, however, was closing the gap.
What was clearly needed was a new product and both companies were vying for the rights to a certain grain rust on the planet Lentem. Again, the only thing holding them up was the native intelligent race. For the Tarks wanted the same item and t
he natives were holding out, hoping to use their commodity as a bargaining point between the two interstellar races.
Jo frowned. The Tarks were popping up more and more lately. There would be a clash someday—a big one. The Tarcan Empire was ruthless and active and no doubt took the Federation’s laissez-faire attitude as a sign of weakness, or poor organization. One day they would overstep their boundaries to test the Federation’s mettle. That would be a fatal mistake for the Tarks.
She fed the Opsal data into the computer and asked for a few correlations and information on any existing variables which she might be able to manipulate. The machine gave her a number of items, among them was the fact that the Tarcan representative was due for another visit to Lentem in quest of the grain rust rights. Also, there emerged a short biography on a man named James Rondo, a terran and the only “alien” allowed permanent residence on Lentem.
She immediately sent an urgent message to the president of Opsal telling him to send a man to Lentem as soon as possible and to place one thousand shares of Opsal stock under the name of one James Rondo, resident of Lentem. She could give no reasons now but asked the president to trust her . . . IBA had done well for them in the past and was trying to do so now.
Now for Fairgood: that company had followed IBA’s advice by sending out exploration teams to any star systems which showed spectroanalytic traces of Leason crystals. It was an expensive undertaking which had yielded only analogues until last year when a motherlode of true, natural Leason crystals had been found on Rako II. Leason crystals were the major lining of peristellar drive tubes and until now could only be obtained through an expensive, low-yield synthesis; a large natural deposit was priceless.
However, the Tarks were claiming the planet, too. A major incident was avoided—luckily—by the discovery of a dying, semi-savage race on the planet. By mutual agreement, Tark and Terran had agreed not to exploit any planet with intelligent natives without the permission of those natives. These natives wanted rejuvenation of their race in return for the crystals, and both the Fairgood company and the Tarcan Empire had research teams at the site trying to solve the problem. No one was meeting with any success. A public-relations expert was clearly indicated here—only the “public” in this case would be a group of aliens.
Jo thought she knew the firm which could supply the right man; if he was free at this time and the firm could be convinced to send him, Andy Tella was the man. She got a message off to Fairgood and virtually insisted that they send one Andrew Tella off to Rako II—and be sure to give him plenty of incentive, she added.
These preparations completed, Josephine Finch could only sit and wait. If her plan was successful, deBloise would be countered. That was all that mattered. As far as she was concerned, this was merely an economic move with political implications. She was using her economic influence to preserve a political system she believed in.
She was totally unaware of what Larry Easly would find on Jebinose and had no idea that her detachment toward deBloise was about to be transformed into a very personal involvement.
IV
After two fruitless weeks on Jebinose, Easly went to Danzer to contact the local Vanek group. He still had his suspicions about Junior’s death and wanted confirmation directly from the mouth of a Vanek. For Vaneks never lie.
It was easy enough to find one. The Vaneks had made a sort of shrine out of the place where Junior had died and there they mounted a constant vigil. In the fatal alley, in the center of a crude circle of stones, sat a lone Vanek beggar, humming and jiggling his broken salad bowl.
“Wheels within wheels,” he said as Easly approached.
“Sure,” said Easly, stopping outside the circle. “Uh, can I speak with you a minute?”
“Speak, bendreth.”
Easly squatted and looked at the Vanek. Pupils dilated from a long watch in the shade of the alley looked out at him from beneath hooded eyelids. The blue-tinted skin of his face was wrinkled and dusty. This was one of the older Vaneks.
“I want to know about Junior Finch.”
The Vanek smiled. “He was our friend.”
“But he was killed.”
The smile remained. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”
“But who killed him?” Easly asked.
“We did.”
“But why?”
“He was our friend.”
Easly was getting annoyed. “But why did you kill a man who was your friend?”
“He was different.”
“How was he different?”
The Vanek shrugged. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”
“But why did you kill him?”
“He was our friend.”
“Oh, hell!” Easly muttered, rising and dusting off his knees. He realized he was wasting his time and turned away without giving alms. Damned if I’ll give them a cent.
How could you figure a bunch of alien half-breeds who kill the man who’s trying to help them, and then make a shrine out of the place where they murdered him?
He growled to himself and headed for his flitter. He had an appointment with Elson deBloise himself later in the afternoon and he didn’t want to be late. His favorite and most successful cover—that of an author researching a book—had paid off again. DeBloise was no different from any other public figure . . . he couldn’t pass up the chance of having his name used as a source.
He spent most of the early afternoon going over his plan of attack. He expected to get little information from deBloise but at least he’d be able to size the man up in person. Larry Easly’s job was people and he could get a lot out of a personal conversation, even if the subject was the weather. And Josephine Finch wanted to know about deBloise and what he knew about her father.
He arrived at the plush home planet offices of the Sector Representative a little early and sat eying the receptionist until it was time for his appointment.
Elson deBloise gave him a warm greeting. “Well, Mr. Easly, what do you think of our fine planet?” He was a big, puffy-looking man, but Easly immediately sensed a core of steel.
“Very nice,” Easly lied as he took the indicated seat.
“I understand you’re doing a book about Joe Finch, Jr.”
Easly nodded. “I was hoping I could get a personal glimpse of the man from your viewpoint.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all, never met him.”
“But that was quite an impassioned speech you made about him on behalf of the Integration Bill.”
“I didn’t have to know him to say what I did,” deBloise replied with a faint smile. “I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to bring equality to those less fortunate and he was trying to give the Vaneks a little dignity. He was going out on a limb for his fellow man. I understood him perfectly and I’m willing to bet that if he were alive today he’d be very active in the Restructurist Movement.”
Easly doubted that very much but kept his opinion to himself. “What about that Integration Bill, Mr. deBloise? Would it have passed without Mr. Finch’s death?”
“Definitely—not with such resounding unanimity, of course, but it would have passed. That bill, by the way, was pending before he even arrived on Jebinose. I was its main sponsor.”
“And on the reputation you earned with that bill, you went on to successfully run for Planet Rep to the Federation, isn’t that correct?”
DeBloise paused and scrutinized his interviewer. “Is this book about me, or about Finch?”
“It’s about Finch, of course,” Easly said, flashing the most disarming smile in his repertoire. “But I want to get into the long-range effects of his stay and consequent demise on Jebinose.”
“Of course,” deBloise said, somewhat mollified. He had the distinct feeling of being under a microscope. This writer, Easly, had a manner about him which deBloise did not like. He’d have to run a check on the man.
The intercom buzzed and deBloise accepted the call with some annoyance. “I said I wasn’t to be di
sturbed during the next few minutes!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the receptionist, “but Mr. Proska is here and wishes to see you.”
The casual observer would have noticed nothing, but Larry Easly’s attention became riveted on deBloise.
At the mention of the name “Proska,” every muscle in deBloise’s body had stiffened and there was the slightest blanching of the skin, the slightest tightening of the mouth. The man’s body was transmitting fear, acute fear. His voice, however, was calm when he spoke.
“Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment.” He released the button and turned to Easly. “I’m sorry, but some urgent business has just come up and I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this interview short. I’m leaving for Fed Central tonight but I should be back in a few weeks; please make another appointment with my secretary.”
Easly said he’d be sure to do so. As he reentered the waiting room, he saw only one occupant besides the receptionist. A small, sallow, balding man sat with his hands on his knees. Easly was about to classify him as a timid nonentity until he caught a look at the man’s eyes. There was not a hint of timidity or even mercy to be found there. This was no doubt the Mr. Proska who struck such fear into the heart of Elson deBloise, powerful, secure, influential Elson deBloise. Mr. Proska must have some sort of hold over deBloise, something that terrified the man. Larry Easly suddenly became very interested in finding out just what it was. He started with the records at the Planet Center.
When the human race broke its Earth-shackles and reached out for new stars and the virgin planets that circled them, its fertility apparently trebled and its numbers grew in a geometrical progression. With interplanetary travel commonplace and interstellar travel a routine, planet-hopping became the rule rather than the exception and it was virtually impossible for one individual to find another. The problem was easily solved with the introduction of planetary record centers. Vital, identifiable statistics of all natives were kept on record, usually in a place near the major spaceport. Data such as date of birth, parents, education, employment record, present location and so on were kept in a file open to the public. Some people grumbled about the records as an invasion of privacy, but most realized that with billions upon billions of humans strewn about the galaxy, they were necessary.
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