But neither of them got to first base. A representative of the Iapetus
colonists came to each ship, and the messages they delivered were
identical.
"The governing board has decided that landings were effected
simultaneously. Consequently you will present all wares for decision in
open competition. Please report immediately to the general offices."
* * * * *
So there we were, a few minutes later, standing in the council room of
the Iapetus governing board; Cap Hanson, Lancelot Biggs, Diane, and
myself, glaring angrily across the room at representatives from our
competitor space-craft, the _Gemini_. _Gemini_ means "twins," which in
this case was right, because the glares Cap Hanson and Cap Murgatroyd
were hurling at each other were Siamese.
The Iapetus governor, an Earthman named Larrabee--said quietly,
"Gentlemen, welcome to our new colony. Now ... I believe you each carry
cargoes on which you wish to claim commercial priorities for your
respective companies? Will you be kind enough to declare the nature of
these cargoes?"
"Mine," said Cap Hanson loudly, "is flower seeds." And scowled at
Murgatroyd.
"Mine," said Murgatroyd loudly, "is flower seeds." And scowled at Cap
Hanson.
The Iapetus governor stroked his jaw thoughtfully.
"This is a delicate situation, gentlemen. You both carry a cargo our
colonists will receive eagerly. It may be rather difficult to decide
which of you--but I must let you present your own cases. What types of
flowers are you carrying?"
"Roses," declared Cap Hanson defiantly. "Eighteen varieties of roses,
includin' the rare, perennial Venusian swamp-rose."
"I see. And you, Captain Murgatroyd?"
"Thirty-four separate and distinct varieties of flowering plants,"
declared our opponent triumphantly, "including roses, geraniums,
nasturtiums, pinks ... practically everything, sir!"
"Ah, yes. That seems to be a point in your favor, Captain Murgatroyd.
Now--the size of your cargoes--?"
"Five hundred lead-sealed ten-bushel containers," gloated Captain
Murgatroyd.
"Very good. And you, Captain Hanson?"
"The IPS," snarled the Old Man, "don't go in for samples! When we
carry a cargo, we carry a cargo. Twelve hundred lead-sealed ten-bushel
containers, Your Honor!"
"Excellent! Excellent, Captain! That seems to be a point in _your_
favor. This is most difficult. Er ... Captain Murgatroyd ... perhaps
you could give us some idea as to the growth potentialities of your
flowers?"
Murgatroyd grinned and dug into an inner pocket, brought forth a folder
which he placed in the Governor's hands.
"Yes, sir. Here is a four-color brochure issued by our Company,
describing each and every type of plant we have brought to Iapetus, and
reproducing pictures of those flowers in full natural color."
* * * * *
The Governor shook out the papers, and my heart played tag with my
shoestrings. The CC's publicity department had done a magnificent job.
Those natural color photographs were luscious enough to make the mouth
of the rankest amateur gardener water. Gay yellows and soft blues ...
brilliant splotches of crimson ... dainty, sunny marigolds ... shy
nodding violets ... that pamphlet was a tempting hunk of stuff.
But I had been wrong in thinking the Governor of Iapetus could be
bribed. He was an honest man. He turned to Cap Hanson.
"And you, Captain? Have you a similar brochure?"
The Old Man scrubbed his jaw feebly. "Why ... er ... the truth is, Your
Honor--" he began.
It was then Lancelot Biggs stepped forward, interrupting the skipper.
"The truth is, Governor," he said blandly, "_our_ Company does not
depend on printed booklets to sell its products. There is, you surely
realize, a certain amount of artistic falsification--or should I
simply call it 'artistic license'?--employed in reproducing facsimiles
of living objects. Therefore, in order to sell _our_ goods we always
attempt to offer a living example of our product.
"I have here--" He dug into his jacket pocket and brought forth a
bulging waxine envelope--"the bud of one of our most gorgeous blooms,
the famous _Rosa rugosa_. You can see for yourself--"
With the look of a proud papa he opened the flap of the envelope,
started to withdraw his single rosebud, and--stopped suddenly. A
look of startled alarm drained his face of all color. He whispered,
"But--but this--"
"Go on, lad," prodded the Old Man. "Show 'em. You got a bud there,
ain't you? Well, show 'em."
But Biggs didn't show 'em. Instead, he closed the envelope again,
slipped it back into his coat pocket, and his liquescent larynx bobbled
frantically as he said,
"I--I'm sorry, gentlemen. I haven't anything to show you."
"Why?" I demanded. "Lanse, for gosh sakes, _why_? What's happened to--"