"That's right."
Instantly the youth adopted a conspiratorial air. His companions
crowded behind him, craning their necks but keeping an eye cocked on
the door. "We're the Executive Council of the Young Freeworkers,"
he whispered hoarsely. "It's an undercover movement in the Bronsco
Young Peoples' Organization. We want to thank you for your editorial
_End-Product of Patronage--Feudalism!_ It was just like listening
to our own constitution--only better expressed."
"Thanks."
"Gee, Mr. Scatterday, _we_ don't like being pensioners of
Kemmerdygn," the youth continued, a little more human now that he had
discharged his mission. "We don't want to spend our lives playing games
and getting an endless third-rate education and being Kemmerdygn's
cheering section. We're only pensioners because our fathers were.
But what can we do? All the restricted jobs have a waiting list a
light-year long, and we're too poor to buy the specialized education
that's required for most of them. Kemmerdygn keeps cutting down the
pension-allotments--just like you said."
"Sure," Scat agreed matter-of-factly. "He employs Martians and pays
Earthmen. A very profitable arrangement, considering the greater
efficiency of Martian labor and the reduction in operating expenses. If
Kemmerdygn switched to human labor, he'd have to ventilate his mines,
increase the size of the drifts, provide special protective garments
and all sorts of safety devices. Even at that, it's doubtful if human
beings could do the work. The situation's practically the same with
regard to all other non-restricted jobs."
"That's right!" Another youth cut in--a dark browed, surly kid. "Nobody
can expect us to compete with bugs! We want work--any sort, so we can
feel we got a stake in the world. But everywhere we look, it's bugs,
bugs, _Bugs_!"
"And who's to blame?" asked Scat softly. "You and me. Our fathers;
our grandfathers. You know your history. Importation of Martians was
permitted only on condition that for every 'living machine' employed
on Earth, the owner would retire an Earthman on perpetual pension.
That was the juicy, mouth-watering bait dangled in front of workers'
eyes so they'd vote in an administration that would pass the Martian
Importation Act. But what does it add up to now? You're living on
charity; the Martians are enslaved. Under those circumstances it takes
a little courage for either of you to stick up for your rights."
"We gotta get rid of the bugs!" asserted the surly kid. "That's what we
gotta do. Run 'em off Earth!"
"Been listening to the Mystic X, Sonny?" Scat inquired. "Or is that
just the line Kemmerdygn hands you?"
"Kemmerdygn's not so bad," the kid retorted hotly. "He wants to get rid
of the bugs, but he can't on account of competition. After all, he's
got us to support. As Kemmerdygn says, the fight now is to keep the
bugs from grabbing off all the restricted jobs too. You know, give a
bug a micron and he'll take a meter!"
* * * * *
Click-Click came in and walked over to Scat's desk. All the youths
were obviously surprised when he didn't go down on all fours and take
the most circuitous route possible. As he strolled blithely past, they
automatically drew back to avoid any suspicion of contact. After that,
their reactions diverged. The surly kid scowled and held his nose, but
the spokesman looked ashamed; a flaming blush crept over his pale face.
He chewed his lip, nerving himself.
"Mr. Scatterday," he began suddenly, "I don't know about the others."
He looked around doubtfully, almost fearfully, at his companions. "But
I personally haven't got anything against the ... er...." He glanced
self-consciously at Click-Click. "... Martians."
From where he was rummaging in the desk, Click-Click coded briskly to
Scat, "Coming up in the world, us bugs."
"I don't believe all that Kemmerdygn tells us," the spokesman
continued, nervously, but with less hesitation. "I think he's just
trying to put pressure on us so we'll enlist in the Martian Patrol or
his own private...." He looked apologetically at Click-Click. "... bug
guard. Personally, I'd like to see the Martians get a square deal." At
this point the surly kid gave a snort of disgust and walked out of the
office along with one of the others. "I really would. But Kemmerdygn
says that if he had to put in all the improvements the Liberators are
agitating for, it would mean cutting down the pension-allotments to
almost nothing, so whole families would actually starve." His next
words were almost a plea. "Gee, you don't really believe that would
happen, do you Mr. Scatterday?"
Scat smiled at him, a little sadly. "Look, boys," he said. "I only
know one thing about your problems. This is it. You're going to be
pensioners--maybe well fed, maybe starving--but pensioners until every
Martian is free."
The youth gulped; when he answered, it was in a very small voice and
with a kind of sigh. "I guess that's what I believe, too," he said.
His three companions nodded.
"There was a Martian lynched here a couple of days ago," Scat continued
gently. "Where were you?"