The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  Heber nodded. “Yes! And did he jump when I told him what had happened. He seems to think it will make a big story. Wants to meet you right away.”

  “Damn!” Junior said as he rubbed his eyes and rose to his feet. “Why’d you have to go and do that? You should have asked me about it first.”

  “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Not about a vid reporter, I’m not. They bring nothing but trouble.”

  “Trouble’s already here, I’m afraid,” Heber said gravely. “A quick look in the mirror will remind you of that.” Junior gingerly touched his swollen, discolored left cheek as Heber continued. “Maybe the knowledge that the vid’s got an eye on the town will prevent any follow-ups to last night’s incident.”

  Junior considered this a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, but I doubt it. Where is he?”

  “Right outside. C’mon.”

  As Junior stepped from the office he saw a compact man in a bright, clean, tailored suit; he was immediately struck by the incongruity of such apparel in the Danzer setting. As the reporter caught sight of him, he snatched up his recording plate and held it out at arm’s length. Junior suddenly realized that he must look like hell – his hair uncombed, his bruised face unwashed and unshaven, his clothes slept in.

  “Mr. Finch?” said the reporter. “I’m Kevin Lutt from JVS. I’d like to ask you a question or two if I may.”

  “Sure,” Junior said with ill-concealed disinterest. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, first of all, I’d like to get a look at the lorry that was burned.”

  Junior shrugged. “Follow me.” He turned to Heber. “I’ll meet you back here later.”

  Walking ahead as the vid man recorded the scenery, Junior felt ill at ease. He did not relish being probed and questioned about his involvement with the Vanek. It was no one else’s business but his own, but Heber seemed to think an interview would help and things couldn’t get much worse, anyway.

  When they reached the charred remains of the lorry, Junior stood back and watched as the vid reporter set the scene for an interview. He scanned the wreck, then turned his recorder plate on Junior.

  “How does it feel to have so narrowly escaped death, Mr. Finch?”

  “It was no narrow escape. I was dragged a good distance from the lorry before it was fired. No one tried to kill me, just scare me a little.”

  Lutt tried another tack. “Just what are your reasons for getting involved in this?”

  Junior merely shrugged and said, “Wheels within wheels.”

  He didn’t like Lutt and he was feeling more and more uncooperative by the minute. The big outside world was threatening to push its way into Danzer and the little town could be ruined in the process. And it would all be his fault.

  “Did you know there’s legislation pending in the capital that pertains directly to such blatant bigotry as this?”

  “Heard something to that effect.”

  “Then why do you feel it necessary to risk your life to do something that the legislature will do for you in a short time?”

  “First of all, Mr. Lutt, let me repeat that my life has not yet been in danger, and most likely will not be. And as for your question: I have never depended on any legislation to do anything whatsoever for me. As a matter of fact, it usually winds up doing something to me.”

  Lutt brushed this off. “You’re facing a violent, bigoted town, Mr. Finch. The events of last night prove that. Aren’t you just a little afraid?”

  Junior almost lost control on that one. In typical journalese, Lutt was lumping Heber and all those like him in with the likes of the Namer boys.

  “Get lost, Lutt,” he snarled and turned away. He was about to start walking back toward town when a movement in the brush caught his eye.

  In a slow procession, the Vanek were coming. As he stood and watched them approach, he noted that Lutt had repositioned himself with his recorder plate held high. When the entire group had assembled itself in a semi-circle around Junior, the chief elder stepped forward and raised his hand. As one, the forty-odd Vanek bowed low and held the position as the elder presented Junior with a begging bowl and a detailed carving of a Jebinose fruit tree in full bloom.

  “They’ll never believe this at home,” Lutt muttered breathlessly, recording the scene from different angles.

  “Now cut that out!” Junior yelled at the Vanek.

  “But, bendreth,” said the elder, “we wish to pay you honor. You have been harmed on our behalf. This has never happened before and–”

  “And nothing! The whole idea of this little campaign was to get you to assert yourselves and demand the dignity and respect you deserve. I turn around and the next thing I know you’re bowing and scraping. Cut it out and stand erect!”

  “But you don’t understand, bendreth,” said the elder.

  “I think I do,” Junior said softly, “and I’ll treasure these gifts for as long as I live, but let’s forget about gratitude and all that for now. Our main concern at the moment is a replacement for the lorry. Until we can get one, you’ll just have to hold out. Borrow from each other, share what food you have until we can get some transportation. Whatever you do, hold to the plan until you hear from me.”

  The elder nodded and started to bow, but caught himself. “Yes, bendreth.”

  “And don’t bow to anyone – ever.” He gave a quick wave and started for the town. Lutt trotted up behind him.

  “Mr. Finch, you’ve just made me a famous man. If I don’t get a journalism award for this recording, no one will. I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

  Junior increased his stride and kept his face averted as he replied. The simple unabashed gratitude in the little Vanek ceremony had moved him more than he cared to admit. As he hurried toward town clutching the bowl and the statue, one under each arm, his eyes were tilled with tears.

  “You can get lost,” he told Lutt.

  HEBER SMILED AND SHOOK his head as Junior gave him a quick rundown of what had happened.

  “You can’t blame them, really,” he said. “Every once in a while a Terran will go out of his way for a Vanek, but you’re the first one they’ve ever known to take a beating on their behalf. You’ll probably rate a spot on one of the major spokes of the Great Wheel when they tell their grandchildren about you.” He paused, then, “How’d you get on with Lutt?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid. How would you feel if you were tired, dirty, grubby, and hungry, and some fast-talking reporter was sticking his recorder plate in your face and asking a lot of stupid questions?”

  “Not too much like being friendly, I suppose,” Heber admitted.

  “And even under the best of conditions I doubt if you’d have liked the timbre of his questions.”

  Heber shrugged. “I expect some smug generalizations to come out of this, but publicity – even unfair publicity – may save you from another beating.”

  Junior rubbed his tender jaw. “I’m all for that.”

  HEBER ENTERED HIS OFFICE the next morning with a news sheet clutched in his hand. Junior was just finishing off a breakfast ration pack.

  “Here – read this! It’s fresh from the capital.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “About half a dozen reporters came in this morning. One of them gave it to me.” Heber beamed. “We’re all over the front page!”

  It was true. The first sheet of the vid service’s printed counterpart was devoted entirely to the doings in Danzer. As Junior skimmed the story under Lutt’s byline, he saw himself portrayed as a mysterious, close-mouthed crusader against bigotry. And in the middle of the front page was a large photo of the Vanek kneeling in homage to him.

  “This is incredible! Lutt has played me up like some sort of fictional vid hero!”

  “There’s not much else doing on Jebinose, I guess, and you seem to make good copy.”

  Junior dropped the sheet on the desk in disgust and went to the window.


  “Where are they now?”

  “If I said they were out back, where would you go?”

  “Out front!”

  “Well, don’t worry too much now. They’re well occupied down the street at the moment with Bill Jeffers. Probably asking him some very pointed questions.”

  “Oh no!” Junior went to the door and peered out. He could see Jeffers standing in the doorway of his store, surrounded by reporters.

  “What’s the matter?” Heber asked.

  “Does Jeffers have a short temper?”

  “He gets hot pretty fast, yes.”

  “Then I’d better get down there,” he said, and was out the door.

  As he hurried down the street, he noted that Jeffers was posed in the stance of a cornered animal, his face red, his eyes bright, his muscles coiled to spring. Junior broke into a loping run. It could well be the intention of one of the reporters to provoke the storekeeper into violence – something to make good vid viewing. It wouldn’t help the Vanek cause to have the media make a fool of Jeffers and portray him as a violence-prone imbecile; it would only serve to double his obstinance.

  “Well, well! ‘The Crusader Against Bigotry’ has arrived!” Jeffers called and waved a news sheet in the air as he caught sight, of Junior approaching.

  The reporters immediately forgot Jeffers and turned on Junior with a flurry of questions.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, elbowing his way by them. “Right now I have something to discuss with Mr. Jeffers.”

  An overweight reporter in a bright green jumper blocked his path. “We have some questions to ask you first, Mr. Finch.” He thrust his recorder plate in Junior’s face.

  “No you don’t,” was the tight-lipped reply.

  The recorder plate clicked on as the reporter started his interview, oblivious to whatever else Junior had in mind. “Now, first off, just where are you from? Rumor has it that you’re an offworlder and I think you should divulge your–”

  Without warning, Junior slapped the recorder plate out of the man’s hand, grabbed two fistfuls of the shiny fabric of his suit, and shoved him off the boardwalk. Hearing a recorder click into operation behind him, he whirled, snatched the plate, ripped it from the extended hand, and hurled it, too, into the street.

  “Now, I said I’d like to speak to Mr. Jeffers. So if you don’t mind, wait across the street until I’m finished. It’s a private conversation.”

  “Our viewers have a right–” someone began.

  “Look! If you want any kind of an interview at all, you’ll wait over there!”

  This threat had real meaning for them. They’d had little time with Jeffers and much of that had been stony silence. If there anything was to be gleaned from this long hot trip out to the sticks, it would he in an interview with this Finch character. Slowly, reluctantly, they drifted across to the other side of the street, muttering that they’d rather be off-planet somewhere tracking down the rumor that The Healer was coming to this sector next.

  “You should be careful,” Jeffers said, watching Junior curiously. “You’ll ruin your image.”

  “I couldn’t do that if I tried,” he replied with a rueful smile, “just as you couldn’t improve yours. They’ve cast us in our roles and we’re locked into them. I’m the hero, you’re the villain. My obnoxious behavior just now will be written off in their minds as a personality quirk. If you had acted the same way, it would have demonstrated a basic flaw in your character and people all over the planet would have seen it tonight.”

  Jeffers made no reply but continued his curious stare.

  “Anyway, I guess you can figure out why I’m here, Bill,” Junior said finally. “I want to ask you to give in and let’s get things back on an even keel around here.”

  But Jeffers’ mind was occupied with something else. “I just can’t figure you out, Finch,” he muttered, shaking his head in wonder. “Just can’t figure you out.” Still shaking his head, he turned and disappeared into the darkness within his store.

  Junior started to follow, then changed his mind and headed back toward Heber’s office, ignoring the waiting reporters. Halfway there, he was stopped by a familiar voice calling him from the street.

  “Bendreth Finch!” It was Rmrl and he was waving from the cab of a shiny new flitterbus. The vehicle pulled to the curb and Rmrl and a Terran emerged.

  “Mr. Finch?” the Terran asked, extending his hand. “I represent a flitter dealer in the capital. Last night we received an anonymous check in full payment for one flitterbus to be delivered to you in Danzer today.”

  “There’s no such thing as an anonymous check,” Junior replied as he gauged the size of the bus. It could easily hold thirty or thirty-five Vanek.

  “Well, the check wasn’t exactly anonymous, but the donor wishes to remain so. I can tell you this, however,” he said in a confidential tone, “he’s one of the more influential traders on the planet.”

  Heber, who missed little of what transpired on the street, had come out of his office to see what was going on and heard the last part of the conversation.

  “You mean it’s free? Free and clear? No strings?”

  The flitter dealer nodded. “The donor has reasons of his own, I suppose, but he has asked for no conditions.”

  Heber slapped Junior on the back. “See! I told you the publicity would do us some good.”

  “Can’t argue with you,” Junior said. He turned to the man from the capital. “What can I say? I accept… and ‘thank you’ to whoever donated it.”

  “Just sign the receipt and it’s yours.”

  Junior signed and turned to Rmrl. “Let’s start the shuttle right now.” But the Vanek was already halfway into the cab.

  VINCE PECK WAS NOT particularly overjoyed to see Junior again, even if he did bring along a busload of blue-skinned customers with him. But after Junior promised him the new bus as a replacement for the burned-out lorry, the shopkeeper became more tractable. He even made so bold as to offer Junior a salary.

  “Yeah,” he said, “receipts have been way up since you started shipping in these Vaneks, so I guess it’s only fair I should pay you a little something. How’s ten credits Jebscript a day sound?”

  Junior shrugged. “Sounds okay to me. I’m worth twice that, but you’re giving me room and board. And I’d prefer something harder than Jebscript – like Tolivian ags – but that would be inconvenient in this neck of the woods. So we’ll call it a deal. We’ll count today as my first paying workday. Okay?”

  Peck’s mouth hung open.

  “Why so surprised? Did you think I’d refuse?”

  “Frankly, yes. I always thought you do-gooder types weren’t interested in money.”

  “Never considered myself much of a do-gooder, Mr. Peck. Always been fairly interested in money, though. And we have a saying in my family: ‘Something for nothing breeds contempt.’ If I did all this driving for free, you just might take me for granted. And I wouldn’t want that to happen.” He regarded his new employer with amusement. “I’m glad you brought it up yourself – saved me the trouble of asking you.”

  “YOU WISHED TO SPEAK TO ME?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, what’s on your mind?”

  “I understand you have a problem in Danzer, sir.”

  “You understand nothing of the sort. I have no problem in Danzer or anywhere else.”

  “If you say so, sir. However, I can take care of that problem very tidily.”

  “I’m very sorry, but I have no problems to speak of. And if I did, I’m certainly capable of handling them myself. Good day to you.”

  “As you wish, sir. But here is my number. I can remedy the problem without any evidence that it was remedied. Remember that: no evidence.”

  AT SUNSET, THE DAY’S RUN finished, Junior sat in Marvin Heber’s office and savored the evening breeze as it came through the open door and cooled the perspirat
ion on his face.

  “Remember when I asked you about a temp regulator a while back?” He and Heber had become close friends since the lorry-burning incident.

  The older man nodded.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. It has its advantages – all-around comfort and all that – but if this little office were regulated, I wouldn’t be sitting in this breeze and getting all these fresh smells brought to me for absolutely nothing.”

  Junior was feeling mellow and very much at peace with himself. “It’s really amazing, you know,” he rambled, gesturing at the brightening stars. “Out there we’ve got everything from professional telepaths to genetic architects, and so many people are completely unaware that places such as Danzer exist. And there must be so many Danzers, where people get on with outdated technology and wouldn’t have it any other way. I think I’m really glad I came here.”

  Someone knocked on the doorjamb. A young man with an attaché case stood silhouetted in the waning light. “They told me I could find Mr. Finch here.”

  “That’s me.”

  The man entered. “I’m Carl Tayes and I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if I may.”

  “Not another reporter, I hope.”

  “No, not at all. I represent a number of legislators in the capital.”

  Heber pushed a chair over to the newcomer with his foot. “Sit down.”

  “Thank you,” Tayes said and did so. He placed the attaché case on his lap and opened it. “You’ve become quite a figure in the last few weeks, Mr. Finch. In that time, you’ve aroused more planetwide interest in the Vanek Problem than the entire legislature has been able to do in the past few years. But the battle is far from over. Passage of the Vanek Equality Act is not yet assured. To be frank: support is drying up.”

  “What’s this have to do with me?”

  “Just this: we would like you to address a few key groups in the capital and urge them to support the bill.”

  “Not interested,” Junior said flatly.

  “But you must!”

  “I must nothing!” Junior said and rose from his seat. “What I’m doing here is contrary to everything in that bill! Can’t you see that? If I’m successful here, I’ll have proved your Vanek Equality Act to be as superfluous as the men who conceived it!”