Tarnhorst smiled. "I'm certain you will. That's why I needed someone who
knows more about this business than I."
"And when we do find it--what then?"
"Then? Why, then we will force them to make the proper changes or there
will be trouble."
* * * * *
Georges Alhamid heard the whole conversation early the next morning. The
governor himself brought the recording over to his office.
"Do you think he knew he was being overheard?"
The governor shrugged. "Who knows. He waltzed all around what he was
trying to say, but that may have been just native caution. Or he may not
want Danley to know what's on his mind."
"How could he bring Danley out here without telling him anything
beforehand?" Alhamid asked thoughtfully. "Is Danley really that
ignorant, or was the whole conversation for our ears?"
"I'm inclined to think that Danley really didn't know. Remember, George,
the best way to hold down the ones below you is to keep them from
gaining any knowledge, to keep data out of their hands--except for the
carefully doctored data you want them to have."
"I know," Alhamid said. "History isn't exactly a popular subject on
Earth." He tapped his fingers gently on the case of the playback and
looked at it as if he were trying to read the minds of the persons who
had spoken the words he had just heard.
"I really think he believed that his nullifying equipment was doing its
job," the governor continued. "He wouldn't have any way of knowing we
could counteract it."
Alhamid shrugged. "It doesn't matter much. We still have to assume that
he's primarily out to bring the Belt Cities under Earth control. To do
that, all he'd have to do is find something that could be built up into
a scandal on Earth."
"Not, _all_, George," the governor said. "It would take a lot more than
that alone. But it would certainly be a start in the right direction."
"One thing we do know," Alhamid said, "is that nobody on Earth will
allow any action against the Belt unless popular sentiment is definitely
against us. As long as we are apparently right-thinking people, we're
all right. I wonder why Tarnhorst is so anxious to get us under the
thumb of the People's Congress? Is it purely that half-baked idealism of
his?"
"Mostly. He has the notion that everybody has a right to be accorded the
respect of his fellow man, and that that right is something that every
person is automatically given at birth, not something he has to earn.
What gave him his particular gripe against us, I don't know, but he's
been out to get us ever since his trip here three years ago."
"You know, Larry," Alhamid said slowly, "I'm not quite sure which is
harder to understand: How a whole civilization could believe that sort
of thing, or how a single intelligent man could."
"It's a positive feedback," the governor said. "That sort of thing has
wrecked civilizations before and will do it again. Let's not let it
wreck ours. Are you ready for the conference with our friend now?"
Georges Alhamid looked at the clock on the wall. "Ready as I'll ever be.
You'd better scram, Larry. We mustn't give Mr. Tarnhorst the impression
that there's some sort of collusion between business and government out
there in the Belt."
"Heaven forfend! I'll get."
When he left, the governor took the playback with him. The recording
would have to be filed in the special secret files.
* * * * *
Captain St. Simon eased his spaceboat down to the surface of Pallas and
threw on the magnetic anchor which held the little craft solidly to the
metal surface of the landing field. The traffic around Pallas was fairly
heavy this time of year, since the planetoid was on the same side of the
sun as Earth, and the big cargo haulers were moving in and out, loading
refined metals and raw materials, unloading manufactured goods from
Earth. He'd had to wait several minutes in the traffic pattern before
being given clearance for anchoring.
He was already dressed in his vacuum suit, and the cabin of the boat was
exhausted of its air. He checked his control board, making sure every
switch and dial was in the proper position. Only then did he open the
door and step out to the gray surface of the landing field. His
suitcase--a spherical, sealed container that the Belt men jokingly
referred to as a "bomb"--went with him. He locked the door of his boat
and walked down the yellow-painted safety lane toward the nearest air
lock leading into the interior of the planetoid.
He lifted his feet and set them down with precision--nobody but a fool
wears glide boots on the outside. He kept his eyes moving--up and
around, on both sides, above, and behind. The yellow path was supposed
to be a safety lane, but there was no need of taking the chance of
having an out-of-control ship come sliding in on him. Of course, if it
was coming in really fast, he'd have no chance to move; he might not
even see it at all. But why get slugged by a slow one?
He waited outside the air-lock door for the green light to come on.
There were several other space-suited figures around him, but he didn't
recognize any of them. He hummed softly to himself.
The green light came on, and the door of the air lock slid open. The
small crowd trooped inside, and, after a minute, the door slid shut
again. As the elevator dropped, St. Simon heard the familiar _whoosh_ as
the air came rushing in. By the time it had reached the lower level, the
elevator was up to pressure.
* * * * *
On Earth, there might have been a sign in such an elevator, reading: _DO
NOT REMOVE VACUUM SUITS IN ELEVATOR._ There was no need for it here;
every man there knew how to handle himself in an air lock. If he hadn't,
he wouldn't have been there.
After he had stepped out of the elevator, along with the others, and the
door had closed behind him, St. Simon carefully opened the cracking
valve on his helmet. There was a faint hiss of incoming air, adjusting
the slight pressure differential. He took off his helmet, tucked it
under his arm, and headed for the check-in station.
He was walking down the corridor toward the checker's office when a hand
clapped him on the shoulder. "Bless me if it isn't St. Simon the Silent!
Long time no, if you'll pardon the cliche, see!"
St. Simon turned, grinning. He had recognized the voice. "Hi, Kerry.
Good to see you."
"Good to see me? Forsooth! Od's bodkins! Hast turned liar on top of
everything else, Good Saint? Good to see me, indeed! 'From such a face
and form as mine, the noblest sentiments sound like the black utterances
of a depraved imagination.' No, dear old holy pillar-sitter, no indeed!
It may be a pleasure to hear my mellifluous voice--a pleasure I often
indulge in, myself--but it couldn't possibly be a pleasure to _see_ me!"
And all the while, St. Simon was being pummeled heartily on the
shoulder, while his hand was pumped as though the other man was
expecting to strike oil at any moment.
His assailant was not a handsome man. Years before, a rare, fast-moving
meteor had punched its way through his helmet and taken part of his face
with it. He had managed to get back to his ship and pump air in before
he lost consciousness. He had had to stay conscious, because the only
thing that held the air in his helmet had been his hand pressed over the
quarter-inch hole. Even so, the drop in pressure had done its damage.
The surgeons had done their best to repair the smashed face, but Kerry
Brand's face hadn't been much to look at to begin with. And the mottled
purple of the distended veins and capillaries did little to improve his
looks.
But his ruined face was a badge of honor, and Kerry Brand knew the fact
as well as anyone.
Like St. Simon, Captain Brand was a professional anchor-setter. Most of
the men who put in the necessary two years went on to better jobs after
they had the required space experience. But there were some who liked
the job and stuck with it. It was only these men--the real experts among
the anchor-setting fraternity--who rated the title of "Captain". They
were free-lancers who ran things pretty much their own way.
"Just going to the checker?" St. Simon asked.
Kerry Brand shook his head. "I've already checked in, old sanctus. And
I'll give you three and one-seventh guesses who got a blue ticket."
St. Simon said nothing, but he pointed a finger at Brand's chest.
"A mild surmise, but a true one," said Brand. "You are, indeed, gazing
upon Professor Kerry Brand, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.--that is to say, Borer of
Asteroids, Master of Anchors, and Planetoid-hauler De-luxe. No, no;
don't look sorry for me. _Some_body has to teach the tadpoles How To
Survive In Space If You're Not Too Stupid To Live--a subject upon which
I am an expert."
"On Being Too Stupid To Live?" St. Simon asked gently.
"A touch! A distinct touch! You are developing a certain unexpected vein
of pawky humor, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself." He
looked at the watch on his wrist. "Why don't you go ahead and check in,
and then we'll go pub-crawling. I have it on good authority that a few
thousand gallons of Danish ale were piped aboard Pallas yesterday, and
you and I should do our best to reduce the surplus."
"Sounds good to me," said St. Simon agreeably. They started on toward
the checker's office.
"Consider, my dear St. Simon," said Brand, "how fortunate we are to be
living in an age and a society where the dictum, 'Those who can, do;
those who can't, teach,' no longer holds true. It means that we weary,
work-hardened experts are called in every so often, handed our little
blue ticket, and given six months off--_with_ pay--if we will only do
the younger generation the favor of pounding a modicum of knowledge into
their heads. During that time, if we are very careful, we can try to
prevent our muscles from going to flab and our brains from corroding
with ennui, so that when we again debark into the infinite sea of
emptiness which surrounds us to pursue our chosen profession, we don't
get killed on the first try. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Cheer up," said St. Simon. "Teaching isn't such a bad lot. And, after
all, you do get paid for it."
"And at a salary! A Pooh-Bah paid for his services! I a salaried minion!
But I do it! It revolts me, but I do it!"
The short, balding man behind the checker's desk looked up as the two
men approached. "Hello, captain," he said as St. Simon stepped up to the
desk.
"How are you, Mr. Murtaugh?" St. Simon said politely. He handed over his
log book. "There's the data on my last ten. I'll be staying here for a
few days, so there's no need to rush the refill requisition. Any calls
for me?"
The checker put the log book in the duplicator. "I'll see if there are,
captain." He went over to the autofile and punched St. Simon's serial
number.
Very few people write to an anchor man. Since he is free to check in and
reload at any of the major Belt Cities, and since, in his search for
asteroids, his erratic orbit is likely to take him anywhere, it might be
months or years before a written letter caught up with him. On the other
hand, a message could be beamed to every city, and he could pick it up
wherever he was. It cost money, but it was sure.
"One call," the checker said. He handed St. Simon a message slip.
It was unimportant. Just a note from a girl on Vesta. He promised
himself that he'd make his next break at Vesta, come what may. He stuck
the flimsy in his pocket, and waited while the checker went through the
routine of recording his log and making out a pay voucher.
There was no small talk between himself and the checker. Mr. Murtaugh
had not elected to take the schooling necessary to qualify for other
than a small desk job. He had no space experience. Unless and until he
did, there would be an invisible, but nonetheless real barrier between
himself and any spaceman. It was not that St. Simon looked down on the
man, exactly; it was simply that Murtaugh had not proved himself, and,
therefore, there was no way of knowing whether he could be trusted or
not. And since trust is a positive quality, lack of it can only mean
mistrust.
Murtaugh handed Captain St. Simon an envelope. "That's it, captain.
Thank you."
St. Simon opened the envelope, took out his check--and a blue ticket.
Kerry Brand broke into a guffaw.
* * * * *
When the phone on his desk rang, Georges Alhamid scooped it up and
identified himself.
"This is Larry, George," said the governor's voice. "How are things so
far?"
"So far, so good," Alhamid said. "For the past week, Mr. Peter Danley
has been working his head off, under the tutelage of two of the
toughest, smartest anchor men in the business. But you should have seen
the looks on their faces when I told them they were going to have an
Earthman for a pupil."