"Can't," replied the officer noncommittally. "There's only one
Interworld Government pass for landing on Uva. You've got it now. Even
the Patrol is only allowed to land in cases of extreme emergency.
They're strict about that. No visitors allowed."
The tiny plane settled quietly in what appeared to be the suburb of the
only city on Uva. Bill dropped to the ground and breathed deeply of the
somewhat muggy, compressed atmosphere of the little planetoid.
"The American Commissioner's place is straight up this street," said
the officer. "So long!" He waved good-by and gunned the plane away.
Bill watched it climb for a second, then turned, marching briskly up
the street.
The germ of an idea--perhaps two ideas--chased around in his brain.
"Maybe I'll get the Uvans to figure out a way for me to head a
monopoly. Something quick," he thought. "If not, I can always hi-jack
the synthetic etheroel formula they'll give me. Castlebottom will give
plenty for it."
He quickened his pace. The Uvan city closed about him. Bill wasn't
paying much attention to it. He gave half-hearted notice to the rather
wild, idiotic arrangement of buildings and streets. Almost everything
was done in amber. Streets stemmed off from the main drag, then
suddenly stopped flush against a building as though some absent-minded
architect had laid the city out.
Something jerked Bill's arm. He turned and found himself staring.
Then he gulped enormously. The _thing_ was undoubtedly a native. It
stood about four feet high and had a salt-cellar body, thick at the
bottom and slim at the top, made of what appeared to be a translucent
amber plastic. Then there was the head. It was bright purple and lumpy
all over, like a cluster of lush grapes. It had ears on each side, a
pointed mouth and a pair of eyes right under the lower lip.
A pair of tenuous arms waved before Bill. The eyes scrutinized him from
under the lip with a vague sort of intelligence. "Caviar," demanded
the _thing_. It stretched one blade-like hand greedily forward.
Bill gasped. He felt dazed. Good Lord, these were the Uvans.
"Caviar?"
One of the grapes on the grape-cluster head of the Uvan flashed a
yellow light. It blinked on and off like a busy signal on a telephone
operator's switchboard. For an instant, the Uvan tried to look menacing.
Bill whipped out his credentials. The pass seemed to strike a
responsive chord in the Uvan for the latter's two eyes saddened. "No
caviar," he murmured. "No caviar. A sadness. Up revolution."
The last phrase had some sort of magical effect for no sooner had
it been uttered, than the streets were filled with more Uvans. They
crowded around, muttering, taking up the refrain--"Up revolution. No
caviar. Up revolution."
Bill backed away cautiously. There was a sudden empty feeling at the
pit of his stomach. Why hadn't Castlebottom or the Patrol told him
about this business of caviar? Why hadn't they warned him the Uvans
were touchy about revolution?
Some fifty of them gathered in the street now. The individual grape
cells on their heads flashing brilliant lights. They were a motley
array, like nothing Bill had ever seen. Somehow, they didn't attempt to
attack. They just strung along behind him, muttering "revolution" left
and right with amazing persistence.
Then Bill spied the Interworld Government flag, bright gold on crimson,
fluttering above a rambling low building--the American Commissioner's
residence. He moved cautiously toward the doorway, afraid to excite the
Uvans by too sudden a motion. At last he looked back. That was strange!
The Uvans stood at a respectful distance.
Bill let out a sigh of relief and pushed the doorbell buzzer. He let
out a wild yell. A fiery something grabbed his finger. Knives seemed to
jab up his arm and slid down his spine. He reeled back among the Uvans
who watched him as though this were all a very lively experiment.
"What the devil happened?" Bill gasped.
"Electric," answered one of the Uvans.
"Electric," Bill murmured. Then the light dawned. The electric buzzer
on the door wasn't insulated. He had punched a live wire.
The cumulative strain of being followed by the grape-headed natives,
then the shock from the buzzer had its effects on Bill. His legs sagged
uncertainly and a cold sweat broke out, bathing his brow. He reached
in one pocket, bringing forth a handy flask of super-potent Venusian
brandy and unscrewed the cap.
Raising the flask, he felt the searing warmth trickle down his throat.
What happened an instant later couldn't have come from the brandy.
Bill felt something hit him from all four sides. It had the composite
solidness of an avalanche, a few battering rams and a dozen Uvans.
A second before his consciousness keeled over backward into a depthless
funnel of darkness he was under the distinct impression of seeing his
brandy flask spin upward, spilling liquor over an orange-eyed Uvan. But
that wasn't all. The Uvan simply dissolved before his eyes like a sugar
man soaked by water!
* * * * *
With his eyes still shut, his neck and wrists clamped in the pillory,
these last thoughts flashed through Bill's mind. Was it a crime to
drink on Uva? What about the caviar? Why had the Uvans jumped on him
without explaining? What were they going to do now?
A bustle of excitement in the market-place caused him to open his eyes
again. He saw the stubby bodied Uvans pushing two new pillories into
place, one on each side of Bill's.
It was then that Bill gasped. His eyes blinked in incredible wonder.
"It's not possible!" he murmured. The head thrust through the pillory
on the right was familiarly dainty--yes, Kitty Carlton!
Bill's astonished eyes swerved to the left.
"Castlebottom!" he shouted.
Castlebottom, with his pudgy neck uncomfortably pinched in the tight
pillory slot, fussed and fumed with impotent rage. "Get me out of
here!" he cried. "Someone will suffer. I say, there!"
Bill grinned, highly pleased. He twisted his head around as far as it
would go, looking toward Kitty Carlton. "You hardly look put out,"
he commented. The girl did look rather pleased with the situation,
despite the unyielding wooden collar.
Kitty smiled. "I'm not," she said.
"How'd you get here?"
"Very simple," said Kitty, her eyes flashing from Bill to Castlebottom.
"Tubby wanted to marry me. I agreed to elope. It's so romantic you
know. I thought Uva would be just the place."
"You mean Tubby ... ah ... Castlebottom agreed to elope and be married
on Uva?"
"Well, he didn't know about that part of it!"
Bill grinned widely. "Something tells me you knew all along you'd
be arrested the minute you brought a ship down here without entry
credentials."
The outer fringe of the market-place crowd surged suddenly. Bill
quickly swerved his glance, for a minute half expecting the Uvans to
froth over and charge the pillories. This, however, seemed to be a wild
surmise for the Uvans stood around, for all the world looking like a
peaceful, deeply preoccupied convention of scientists and professors.
Many of them carried umbrellas, some open, others closed. Many appeared
to be puzzled as to why they were in the market-place at all.
Then Bill saw the cause of the disturbance. A lean, thatch-haired
earthman moved through the crowd. He was dressed in a _mono_, the
belted, coverall uniform strictly reserved for Interworld Government
officials. The Uvans moved respectfully aside, opening a channel to the
pillories.
He stopped directly before Bill and gazed up in a half bewildered
fashion. "I'm Webster," he said. "Interworld Government representative
on Uva. There's going to be a trial. I suppose you're the people up for
trial?"
"A trail for what?" Bill asked.
Webster flashed Bill a disconcerted look, then turned and conferred
with three official looking Uvans, some of whose eyes were at the backs
of their heads. A low, earnest conversation ensued. Finally Webster
fastened his eyes on Bill, appealingly.
"Do you mind telling me who's responsible?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" Bill demanded, impatiently.
"Look here," said Webster, "you don't understand. There's going to
be a trial. That's certain. But I might tell you for your own good,
the Uvans are most absent-minded. They can't remember the charges
against more than one person so I'd like to know which one of you is
responsible. All of you can't be responsible. It just won't do. Now,
which one of you caused the trouble?"
Bill glanced at Kitty, then at Castlebottom. Uva began to exhibit signs
of unlimited promise for an alert freebooter. Bill twisted his pinioned
left hand, crooking an accusing finger at Castlebottom.
"He's the trouble," said Bill. "Miss Carlton and I came together. I'll
show you my credentials. We're here to get an _equals_ for the Fuel
Monopoly. This tubby chap stowed away on our ship. He's trying to
smuggle liquor into Uva."
"Liquor?" A curious, tense note entered Webster's voice. "Liquor, did
you say?"
"It's a bald lie. I did no such thing," Castlebottom protested
chokingly. "You know who I am? Ask Miss Carlton. She'll tell you who I
am."
Commissioner Webster stared appreciatively at Kitty Carlton who, even
though her head was caught in a pillory, would still be the toast of
three planets.
"I never saw the fat man in my life," Kitty protested.
"That settles it then," said Webster. "Liquor. Hmm, a sadness, too.
It could have been something else." He conferred again with the Uvan
officials.
A moment later the pillory holding Castlebottom was carted away to
the local courthouse, the entire population of Uva following it. The
stocks, holding Bill and Kitty were released, freeing them.
"That's nice," said Bill as he rubbed his neck and dropped to the
ground beside Kitty and the Commissioner. "But what's going to happen
to Castlebottom?"
Webster shook his head forlornly. "Oh, by the time they get him to the
court and ready for trial they'll have forgotten the charges again. The
Uvans are terribly absent-minded about little things like that. They'll
bring him back to the market and put him in the stocks again. It's the
stock punishment. But now, let's get along and find you an office."
"An office?" Kitty Carlton interrupted.
Webster took her arm in colonial gentleman fashion and began walking.
"Yes, my dear," he said. "You'll both need an office. Everyone needs a
place to think in. An office is best. You understand, Uva's principal
industry is thinking. If you're to be here for any length of time
you'll need an office."
Webster halted, let his eyes scan the oddly shaped buildings bordering
the market-place, then he set off toward an empty stall in a nearby
building. As he entered, followed by Bill and Kitty, he waved his hand
elegantly. "This should do. Everything you'll need: umbrella stand,
chairs and a do-not-disturb sign ... ah.... What's your name?"
"Petrie, Fuel Monopoly," said Bill.
Webster took a scrap of chalk from his pocket and scrawled a hasty,
uneven sign on the amber sidewalk before the little office.