The boxed ad in the opportunities section of the Kardon Journal of
Allied Medical Sciences stood out like a cut diamond in a handful
of gravel. “Wanted,” it read, “Veterinarian--for residency in active
livestock operation. Single recent graduate preferred. Quarters and
service furnished. Well-equipped hospital. Five-year contract, renewal
option, starting salary 15,000 cr./annum with periodic increases. State
age, school, marital status, and enclose recent tri-di with application.
Address Box V-9, this journal.”
Jac Kennon read the box a second time. There must be a catch to it.
Nothing that paid a salary that large could possibly be on the level.
Fifteen thousand a year was top pay even on Beta, and an offer like this
for a new graduate was unheard of--unless Kardon was in the middle of an
inflation. But Kardon wasn’t. The planet’s financial status was A-1.
He knew. He’d checked that immediately after landing. Whatever might
be wrong with Kardon, it wasn’t her currency. The rate of exchange was
1.2-1 Betan.
A five-year contract--hmm--that would be seventy-five thousand. Figure
three thousand a year for living expenses, that would leave sixty-plenty
of capital to start a clinic. The banks couldn’t turn him down if he had
that much cash collateral.
Kennon chuckled wryly. He’d better get the job before he started
spending the money he didn’t have. He had 231 credits plus a few
halves, tenths, and hundredths, a diploma in veterinary medicine, some
textbooks, a few instruments, and a first-class spaceman’s ticket. By
watching his expenses he had enough money to live here for a month and
if nothing came of his efforts to find a job on this planet, there was
always his spaceman’s ticket and another world.
Another world! There were over six thousand planets in the Brotherhood
of Man. At two months per planet, not figuring transit time, it would
take more than a thousand Galactic Standard years to visit them all, and
a man could look forward to scarcely more than five hundred at best. The
habitat of Man had become too large. There wasn’t time to explore every
possibility.
But a man could have certain standards, and look until he found a
position that fitted. The trouble was--if the standards were too high
the jobs were too scarce. Despite the chronic shortage of veterinarians
throughout the Brotherhood, there was a peculiar reluctance on the part
of established practitioners to welcome recent graduates. Most of the
ads in the professional journals read “State salary desired,” which was
nothing more than economic blackmail--a bald-faced attempt to get as
much for as little as possible. Kennon grimaced wryly. He’d be damned if
he’d sell his training for six thousand a year. Slave labor, that’s what
it was. There were a dozen ads like that in the Journal. Well, he’d give
them a trial, but he’d ask eight thousand and full GEA benefits. Eight
years of school and two more as an intern were worth at least that.
He pulled the portable voicewrite to a comfortable position in front of
the view wall and began composing another of the series of letters that
had begun months ago in time and parsecs away in space. His voice was a
fluid counterpoint to the soft hum of the machine.
And as he dictated, his eyes took in the vista through the view
wall. Albertsville was a nice town, too young for slums, too new for
overpopulation. The white buildings were the color of winter butter in
the warm yellow sunlight as the city drowsed in the noonday heat. It
nestled snugly in the center of a bowl-shaped valley whose surrounding
forest clad hills gave mute confirmation to the fact that Kardon
was still primitive, an unsettled world that had not yet reached the
explosive stage of population growth that presaged maturity. But that
was no disadvantage. In fact, Kennon liked it. Living could be fun on a
planet like this.
It was abysmally crude compared to Beta, but the Brotherhood had opened
Kardon less than five hundred years ago, and in such a short time one
couldn’t expect all the comforts of civilization.
It required a high population density to supply them, and while Kardon
was integrated its population was scarcely more than two hundred
million. It would be some time yet before this world would achieve a
Class I status. However, a Class II planet had some advantages. What it
lacked in conveniences it made up in opportunities and elbow room.
A normal Betan would have despised this world, but Kennon wasn’t normal,
although to the casual eye he was a typical representative of the
Medico-Technological Civilization, long legged, fair haired, and short
bodied with the typical Betan squint that left his eyes mere slits
behind thick lashes and heavy brows. The difference was internal rather
than external.
Possibly it was due to the fact that his father was the commander of a
Shortliner and most of his formative years had been spent in space. To
Kennon, accustomed to the timeless horror of hyper space, all planets
were good, broad open places where a man could breathe unfiltered air
and look for miles across distances unbroken by dually bulk heads and
safety shields. On a planet there were spaciousness and freedom and
after the claustrophobic confinement of a hyper ship any world was
paradise. Kennon sighed, finished his letters, and placed them in the
mail chute. Perhaps, this time, there would be a favorable reply.