The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  He had taken up a new hobby – politico-watching, he called it – which occupied most of his time. His purposes were his own, his methods were the best money could buy. The hobby seemed to satisfy the sense of political mischief he had inherited from Joe.

  The status quo might have remained undisturbed indefinitely had not an attractive and rather hostile nineteen-year-old girl walked into his office one day and demanded control of her father’s stock in IBA. Josephine Finch had come of age.

  Old Pete gave her the stock without hesitation. As Junior’s only descendant, she had a right to it. She went on to request temporary proxy power of his stock and, for his own reasons, he gave it to her.

  And that’s when Josephine Finch began to turn IBA upside down. The outcome was a flurry of resignations from the board of directors and the forced retirement of Old Pete himself.

  Retirement afforded him more time to devote to his politico-watching and now he had stumbled onto something that threatened all of interstellar trade. He didn’t know just what was being planned, but if the Restructurists were talking in units of a half-million Fed credits, it was big… very big. And if it was good for the Restructurists, it was bad for him – bad for IBA, bad for the companies he had counseled over the years, bad for all the freedoms that had made his life so worthwhile.

  Tella was right. This was too big for him. He was going to need help and the only place he could go was IBA. He didn’t relish the thought. There remained quite a residue of ill feeling between Jo and him, all of it on her side. He had been surprised and hurt by the forced retirement, especially after letting her use his stock against the board of directors, but he had not fought it. He had been seriously considering dropping his nominally active role in the company for some time but had never got around to doing anything about it. The forced retirement made up his mind for him and he left quietly for the Kel Sea island he had purchased shortly after Junior’s death.

  No, he bore no ill feelings – the girl reminded him too much of Junior for that – but he wished he could say the same for Jo. He couldn’t understand her. There had been an undercurrent of hostility in all her relations with him, and for no apparent reason.

  Old Pete sighed and rose to his knees, then to his feet. He hated to leave the island. Even more, he hated the thought of facing that fiery little girl again. Because seeing her always brought back memories of Joe, Jr.

  And remembering Junior always made Old Pete a little sad.

  Junior

  THE TWO MEN GAZED at the bustle of the spaceport below them.

  “But where are you going?” the older one asked. He appeared genuinely concerned.

  Joe Finch, Jr., shrugged. “Really haven’t decided yet. Probably into the outer sectors.”

  “But the company–”

  “It’s only for a year, Pete, and I’m sure IBA won’t miss me. If anyone can take care of things, it’s you. I haven’t contributed much since Dad’s death anyway.”

  “But you just can’t drop everything and take off like this,” Paxton protested. “What about Josephine?”

  Junior put his hand on Paxton’s shoulder. They were close – Junior had called him “Uncle Pete” as a kid – and Paxton now and then tended to take on a fatherly attitude, especially since the death of Joe, Sr.

  “Look. Jo’s ten now. I’ve tried to be a mother and a father to her for the three years since the accident. She’s perhaps overly attached to me at this point, but she’ll survive a year without me. I’m thirty-three and I’ve got to get away for a while or I won’t be much of anything to anybody. Especially to me.”

  “I know what’s going on inside that head of yours,” Paxton said gravely, “so don’t take this wrong… but can’t you climb a mountain or something?”

  Junior laughed. “I’ve no desire to be a mountain hanger. I… I just don’t feel part of IBA, that’s all. It’s not my company. It’s yours and Dad’s. I had nothing to do with its founding or growth. It’s just being handed to me.”

  “But the company has a lot of growing to do. You could be a big part of that. In fact, IBA’s future will ultimately depend on you, you know. If you run out on it now, there’s no telling what–”

  “IBA’s present momentum,” Junior interjected, “will easily carry it another decade with little help from anyone. I’ve got no qualms about taking out a year to go somewhere.”

  “And do what?”

  “I dunno… something.” He extended his hand. “Good-by, Pete. I’ll contact you when I get where I’m going.”

  Peter Paxton watched the slouching figure amble off in the direction of one of the shuttle ramps, a man in the shadow of his father, the only son of Joe Finch trying to prove to himself that he was worthy of the title. It was distressing to see him wander off like this, but Paxton had to admire him for having the guts to do it. After all, it was only for a year. Maybe he could find himself in that time, or do something to put him at ease with himself. He wouldn’t be much use around the company in his present state anyway.

  So both men parted convinced that it was for the best and only for a year; neither realized that one would be dead before that year was up.

  JUNIOR DIDN’T KNOW exactly why he picked Jebinose. Maybe he had heard about its minor racial problem once and the memory had lingered in his subconscious, waiting for the opportune moment to push him in the planet’s direction. Maybe he was drawn to situations in flux. Jebinose was in minor flux.

  The planet’s background was a blot on the early history of man’s interstellar colonization. In the old days of the splinter colonies, exploration teams were sent out in all directions to find Earth-class planets. At that time the Earth government was offering a free ride to a suitable planet to any dissident group that desired an opportunity to realize its own idea of a perfect society. The policy served many purposes: it disseminated Terrans in a rough globe of space with Earth holding a vague central position; it allowed humanity to start dehomogenizing itself by cutting divergent parts off from the whole and letting them develop on their own; it took enormous pressure off the Earth bureaucracy – the real reason for the plan’s inception – by forming an exit route for the malcontents and freethinkers on the planet.

  A lot of planets were needed and this put considerable pressure on the exploration teams. Sometimes they became careless. A major criterion for colonizable classification was the absence of an “intelligent” native species. No one was quite sure of just exactly what was meant by “intelligent,” but tool-making was the accepted rule of thumb for dividing the thinkers from the non-thinkers. There were countless long, ponderous discussions on the wisdom of using a single criterion to determine a race’s position on the intellectual scale but those discussions took place on Earth. The actual decisions were left up to the explorer crews; and as far as they were concerned, tool-making was it.

  The Jebinose blunder, however, had nothing to do with interpretation of the rules. The planet was given an “M” classification (Earth-type, suitable for settling) after the most cursory of examinations. The colonists were indeed surprised when they discovered that they were sharing the planet with a tribe of primitive humanoids.

  No one knows too much about the early colonial history of Jebinose. The splinter group that landed there was composed of third-rate syndicalists and was conspicuous only by reason of its particular ineptitude at the task of colonization. But for the Vanek, not a single member would have survived the first winter.

  The Vanek are an alien enigma. They are quiet, humble, peaceful, fatalistic. Few in number, they are intensely devoted to a rather vague religion which bids them to welcome all newcomers to the fold. Their civilization had reached an agrarian plateau and they were quite willing to let it remain there.

  Humanoid with blue-gray skin and long, spindly arms, they found it easy to befriend the colonists. It was not long before the Vanek had completely swallowed them up.

  The cross-breeding phenomenon between human and Vanek has yet to be explained
. There are many theories but no single one has received general acceptance. No matter… it worked. The Jebinose colony, as in the case of many other splinter colonies, was forgotten until the new Federation tried to order the chaos of the omnidirectional human migration. By the time it was rediscovered, human and Vanek genes had been pooled into a homogeneous mixture.

  Much heated debate ensued. Some argued that since the original colony had been completely absorbed, resettlement would, in effect, be interference with an alien culture. Others argued that the Vanek were now part human and thus had a right to Terran technology… and besides, Jebinose was favorably situated in regard to an emerging trade route that had great potential.

  Jebinose was resettled. The emerging trade route, however, failed to live up to its potential. The planet had an initial spurt of growth in its population as spaceports were constructed and cities grew up around them. Then the population stabilized into a slower, steadier growth pattern and some of the hardier citizens moved to the hinterlands where the Vanek lived and technology was at a low level. Jebinose was typical of many middle level planets: modern cities and relatively primitive outlands; not a backwater planet, but hardly in the thick of interplanetary affairs.

  The Vanek tribes were scattered over the planet, mostly in the agricultural areas. It was through one of these that Junior wandered. He was tall and wiry with a good amount of muscle on a light frame. The unruly sandy hair that covered the tops of his ears and curled at his neck was his mother’s; the long straight nose, blue eyes and sure movements were his father’s. His face was fair, open, likable, ready to accept the universe on its own terms until he found good reason to change it. Although there was no physical abnormality, his shoulders were perpetually hunched; he’d been told all his life to straighten his back but he never did.

  His wandering eventually brought him to the town of Danzer. It was a tiny place, the town center consisting of eight wooden buildings, a general store/restaurant among them. A few rugged-looking ground cars rolled up and down the dirt street that ran through the middle of town. On each side of the street ran a raised wooden boardwalk. Junior found a shady spot on the south side, unslung his backpack, and sat down.

  He had been walking for days and was bone weary. A cool breeze helped evaporate the sweat beading his face as he put his head back against a post and closed his eyes. And to think he had considered himself in good physical condition. That was rough terrain out there. Those gentle rolling hills that looked so beautiful from a distance were sheer torture on the upside, especially with an extra tenth of a G to work against. He could have rented a flitter or a ground car; could have bought one outright. But he hadn’t wanted to do it that way. Now he wondered if that had been such a wise idea.

  He reopened his eyes as the last drop of sweat dried and noticed a middle-aged man staring at him from across the street. The man continued to stare for a short while longer, then he stepped off the boardwalk and crossed over to Junior for a closer look.

  “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” he said in provincial tones and stuck out his right hand. “I’m Marvin Heber and I like to know everyone in Danzer.”

  Junior shook that proffered hand – it was lightly callused; not a field worker’s hand. “My name’s Junior Finch and, yes, I’m new around here. Very new.”

  Heber sat down beside him and tipped back the brim of the cap he was wearing. His face was a weathered ruddy brown up to the hatband line about two centimeters above his eyebrows. At that point the skin abruptly turned white. He was gaunt and about average height. Some of his teeth were missing – a sight Junior was not at all used to – and it appeared he had neglected to apply a depilatory cream that morning. Hardly an arresting figure, this Marvin Heber, but something in the quick, searching eyes told Junior that this man was quite a bit more than he seemed.

  “Just moving in, huh?”

  “No. Moving through, actually. I’ve been wandering around the region just to see what I can see.”

  “See anything interesting?”

  The man was nosy and did not make the slightest attempt to hide it. Junior decided to be as oblique as possible.

  “Lot of virgin land left around here,” he replied.

  Heber nodded and eyed the newcomer. “If you want to settle, I’m sure we can help you find a place.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me, really. I was using the plural in the editorial sense.”

  Now Junior was certain this man was more than he seemed. He fumbled for something to say next and was getting nowhere when the approach of an odd-looking figure changed the course of the conversation. An elderly, spindle-armed beggar in a dusty robe came up to him and asked for alms. His skin was bluish gray and his black hair was pulled back from a high forehead and wound into a single braid that was slung in front of his left shoulder.

  Junior fished in a pocket, came up with a few small coins, and dropped them into the earthen bowl extended in his direction.

  “Wheels within wheels, bendreth,” the beggar said in high, nasal tones, and then continued his journey down the street.

  “That was a Vanek, right?” Junior asked as he watched the figure recede. “I hear they’re common in this region but that’s the first one I’ve seen close up since I arrived.”

  “As a group they keep pretty much to themselves and only come into town to buy supplies now and then. There’s always a beggar or two about, however.”

  Junior made no reply, hoping his silence would draw Heber out.

  “They spend most of their time on their reservation–”

  “They’re confined to a reservation?”

  “Confined is hardly the word, my young friend. Before the Federation would allow resettlement of this planet, the Vanek leaders were approached and asked if they objected. Their reply: ‘Wheels within wheels, bendreth.’ When asked to choose whatever areas they would like reserved – without limit, mind you – for their exclusive use, they replied, ‘Wheels within wheels, bendreth.’ So their nomadic patterns were observed and mapped out and everywhere they wandered was reserved for their exclusive use.” He grunted. “Waste of good land if you ask me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They don’t wander anymore. And there aren’t all that many of them. Never was. Their total population peaked at about a hundred thousand planet-wide fifty standard years ago. They’ve leveled off at about ninety thousand now. Looks like they’ll stay there, too.”

  “Why’d they stop wandering?”

  “Don’t have to any more. All they’ve got to do is sit around meditating and carving their little statues.”

  “Eh?”

  “That’s right. Little statues. But you won’t see any around here. Some company in the city buys them up as fast as the Vanek can turn them out and sells them as curios all over Occupied Space. ‘Handmade by alien half-breeds’ I believe the ads run.”

  “You know,” Junior said, straightening up, “I think I’ve seen one or two in gift shops.” He had a vague memory of oddly grained wood carved into intricate and bizarre landscapes and tableaux. He also remembered the price tags.

  “Then you realize why the Vanek have no financial worries.”

  “Why do they beg, then?”

  Heber shrugged. “It’s somehow mixed up with their religion, which no one really understands. Mostly it’s the old Vanek who do the begging; I guess they get religious in their dotage just like a lot of humans. You heard him say, ‘Wheels within wheels’ after you gave him some coins, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Junior replied with a nod. “Then he said, ‘bendreth,’ or something like that.”

  “Bendreth is the Vanek equivalent of ‘sir’ or ‘madam.’ They say that to just about everybody. ‘Wheels within wheels,’ however, has something to do with their religion. According to tradition, a wise old Vanek philosopher with an unpronounceable name came up with the theory that the universe was a conglomeration of wheels: wheels within wheels within wheels within
wheels.”

  “Wasn’t too far wrong, was he?”

  “No, I guess not. Anyway, he managed to tie everything – and I mean everything – into the workings of these wheels. Got to the point where the only answer or comment he could make about anything was ‘Wheels within wheels.’ It’s a pretty fatalistic philosophy. They believe that everything works out in the end so they rarely take any decisive action. They figure the wheels will turn full circle and even things up without their help.”

  He paused for a breath, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled it. “Did you notice the cracks in the begging bowl, by the way?”

  Junior nodded. “Looked like it had been broken and then glued back together again.”

  “That’s part of the religion, too. You see, that old philosopher went to a banquet once – this was in the ancient days when the Vanek were a rather lusty and barbaric race – and the chief of this particular tribe sought to question him on his philosophy. Of course, the only answer he could get was ‘Wheels within wheels, bendreth.’ This annoyed him but he contained his anger until they all sat down at the eating table. During the meal it is said that the old philosopher uttered his favorite phrase over 250 times. Finally, the chief could take no more and broke a heavy earthen salad bowl over the old man’s head, killing him. So now all Vanek beggars carry an earthen salad bowl that they have broken and then repaired as a sign that the philosopher did not die in vain.”

  Junior shook his head in wonder. “Sound like strange folk. How do the local Terrans get along with them?”

  Heber shot him a sidelong glance, then answered. “I guess ‘get along’ is about the only way you could put it,” he admitted. “There’s no animosity between the two groups but there’s certainly no friendship either. The Vanek are not easy people to warm up to. They float in and out of town and have no effect on the rest of us. Some of the city folks have been making noises about Terrans discriminating against the Vanek and I suppose there are plenty of instances where it happens, but it’s a passive thing. When you come down to it, most Terrans around here just don’t have any respect for the Vanek because the Vanek don’t care about respect and consequently do nothing to engender it.