Don Channing stormed into the Director's office with a scowl on his
face.
"Look," he said, "for years we have felt that any man, woman, or
child that was willing to come out here was worth all the freedom and
consideration that we could give them. What about this damned tax on
cigarettes? And candy? And who told you to stop our folks from telling
their folks that they are still in good health? And why stop them from
sending packages of candy, cake, mementoes, clothing, soap, mosquito
dope, liquor, or anything else? And did you ever think that a curfew
is something that can be applied only when time is one and the same
for all? On Venus Equilateral, Mr. Burbank, six o'clock in the evening
is two hours after dinner for one group, two hours after going to work
for the second group, and mid-sleep for the third. Then this matter of
cutting all love scenes, drinking, female vampires, banditry, bedroom
items, murders, and sweater girls out of the movies? We are a selected
group and well prepared to take care of our morality. Any man or woman
going offside would be heaved out quick. Why, after years of personal
freedom, do we find ourselves under the authority of a veritable
dictatorship?"
Francis Burbank was not touched. "I'll trouble you to keep to your own
laboratory," he told Channing. "Perhaps your own laxity in matters of
this sort is the reason why the Commission preferred someone better
prepared. You speak of many things. There will be more to come. I'll
answer some of your questions. Why should we permit our profits to be
eaten up by people sending messages, cost-free, to their acquaintances
all over the minor planets? Why should valuable space for valuable
supplies be taken up with personal favors between friends? And if the
personnel wants to smoke and drink, let them pay for the privilege! It
will help to pay for the high price of shipping the useless items out
from the nearest planet--as well as saving of precious storage space!"
"But you're breeding ill will among the employees," objected Channing.
"Any that prefer to do so may leave!" snapped Burbank.
"You may find it difficult to hire people to spend their lives in a
place that offers no sight of a sky or a breath of fresh air. The
people here may go home to their own planets to find that smell of
fresh, spring air is more desirable than a climate that never varies
from the personal optimum. I wonder, occasionally, if it might not be
possible to instigate some sort of cold snap or a rainy season just for
the purpose of bringing to the members of Venus Equilateral some of
the surprises that are to be found in Chicago or New York. Hell, even
Canalopsis has an occasional rainstorm!"
"Return to your laboratory," said Burbank coldly. "And let me run the
station. Why should we spend useful money to pamper people? I don't
care if Canalopsis does have an occasional storm, we are not on Mars,
we are in Venus Equilateral. You tend to your end of the business and
I'll do as I deem fitting for the station!"
Channing mentally threw up his hands and literally stalked out of the
office. Here was a close-knit organization being shot full of holes
by a screwball. He stamped down to the ninth level and beat upon the
closed door of Joe's. The door remained closed.
Channing beat with his knuckles until they bled. Finally a door popped
open down the hallway fifty yards and a man looked out. His head popped
in again, and within thirty seconds the door to Joe's opened and
admitted Channing.
Joe slapped the door shut behind Channing quickly.
"Whatinhell are you operating, Joe--a speakeasy?"
"The next time you want in," Joe informed him, "knock on 902 twice,
914 once, and then here four times. We'll let you in. And now, don't
say anything too loud." Joe put a finger to his lips and winked
broadly. "Even the walls listen," he said in a stage whisper.
He led Channing into the room and put on the light. There was a flurry
of people who tried to hide their glasses under the table. "Never
mind," called Joe. "It's only Dr. Channing."
The room relaxed.
"I want something stiff," Channing told Joe. "I've just gone three
rounds with His Nibs and came out cold."
Some people within earshot asked about it. Channing explained what had
transpired. The people seemed satisfied that Channing had done his best
for them. The room relaxed into routine.
The signal knock came on the door and was opened to admit Walt Franks
and Arden Westland. Franks looked as though he had been given a stiff
workout in a cement mixer.
"Scotch," said Arden. "And a glass of brew for the lady."
"What happened to him?"
"He's been trying to keep to Burbank's latest suggestions."
"You've been working too hard," Channing chided him gently. "This is
the wrong time to mention it, I suppose, but did that beam slippage
have anything to do with your condition--or was it vice versa?"
"You know that I haven't anything to do with the beam controls
personally," said Franks. He straightened up and faced Channing
defiantly.
"Don't get mad. What was it?"
"Mastermind, up there, called me in to see if there were some manner
or means of tightening the beam. I told him, sure, we could hold the
beam to practically nothing. He asked me why we didn't hold the beam
to a parallel and save the dispersed power. He claimed that we could
reduce power by two to one if more of it came into the station instead
of being smeared all over the firmament. I, foolishly, agreed with him.
He's right. You could. But only if everything is immobilized. I've been
trying to work out some means of controlling the beam magnetically so
that it would compensate for the normal variations due to magnetic
influences. So far I've failed."
"It can't be done. I know, because I worked on the problem for three
years with some of the best brains in the system. To date, it is
impossible."
A click attracted their attention. It was the pneumatic tube. A
cylinder dropped out of the tube, and Joe opened it and handed the
enclosed paper to Franks.
He read:
"WALT:
I'M SENDING THIS TO YOU AT JOE'S BECAUSE I KNOW THAT IS WHERE YOU
ARE AND I THINK YOU SHOULD GET THIS REAL QUICK.