MAIN CITY LEVEL

The ceiling on Main City Level is two hundred feet high; in order to

permit free circulation of air and avoid traffic jams, nothing is

built higher than a hundred and fifty feet except the square

buildings, two hundred yards apart, which rest on foundations on the

Bottom Level and extend up to support the roof. The _Times_ has one of

these pillar-buildings, and we have the whole thing to ourselves. In a

city built for a quarter of a million, twenty thousand people don't

have to crowd very closely on one another. Naturally, we don't have a

top landing stage, but except for the buttresses at the corners and

solid central column, the whole street floor is open.

Tom hadn't said anything after we left the stacks of wax and the men

guarding them. We came up a vehicle shaft a few blocks up Broadway,

and he brought the jeep down and floated it in through one of the

archways. As usual, the place was cluttered with equipment we hadn't

gotten around to repairing or installing, merchandise we'd taken in

exchange for advertising, and vehicles, our own and everybody else's.

A couple of mechanics were tinkering on one of them. I decided, for

the oomptieth time, to do something about cleaning it up. Say in

another two or three hundred hours, when the ships would all be in

port and work would be slack, and I could hire a couple of good men to

help.

We got Murell's stuff off the jeep, and I hunted around till I found a

hand-lifter.

"Want to stay and have dinner with us, Tom?" I asked.

"Uh?" It took him a second or so to realize what I'd said. "Why, no,

thanks, Walt. I have to get back to the ship. Father wants to see me

before the meeting."

"How about you, Bish? Want to take potluck with us?"

"I shall be delighted," he assured me.

Tom told us good-by absent-mindedly, lifted the jeep, and floated it

out into the street. Bish and I watched him go; Bish looked as though

he had wanted to say something and then thought better of it. We

floated Murell's stuff and mine over to the elevator beside the

central column, and I ran it up to the editorial offices on the top

floor.

We came out in a big room, half the area of the floor, full of

worktables and radios and screens and photoprinting machines. Dad, as

usual, was in a gray knee-length smock, with a pipe jutting out under

his ragged mustache, and, as usual, he was stopping every minute or so

to relight it. He was putting together the stuff I'd transmitted in

for the audiovisual newscast. Over across the room, the rest of the

_Times_ staff, Julio Kubanoff, was sitting at the composing machine,

his peg leg propped up and an earphone on, his fingers punching

rapidly at the keyboard as he burned letters onto the white plastic

sheet with ultraviolet rays for photographing. Julio was an old

hunter-ship man who had lost a leg in an accident and taught himself

his new trade. He still wore the beard, now white, that was

practically the monster-hunters' uniform.

"The stuff come in all right?" I asked Dad, letting down the lifter.

"Yes. What do you think of that fellow Belsher?" he asked. "Did you

ever hear such an impudent string of lies in your life?" Then, out of

the corner of his eye, he saw the lifter full of luggage, and saw

somebody with me. "Mr. Murell? Please excuse me for a moment, till I

get this blasted thing together straight." Then he got the film

spliced and the sound record matched, and looked up. "Why, Bish?

Where's Mr. Murell, Walt?"

"Mr. Murell has had his initiation to Fenris," I said. "He got

squirted by a tread-snail almost as soon as he got off the ship. They

have him at the spaceport hospital; it'll be 2400 before they get all

the poison sweated out of him."

I went on to tell him what had happened. Dad's eyes widened slightly,

and he took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at Bish with

something very reasonably like respect.

"That was mighty sharp work," he said. "If you'd been a second slower,

we'd be all out of visiting authors. That would have been a nice

business; story would have gotten back to Terra, and been most

unfortunate publicity for Fenris. And, of course," he afterthoughted,

"most unfortunate for Mr. Murell, too."

"Well, if you give this any publicity, I would rather you passed my

own trifling exploit over in silence," Bish said. "I gather the

spaceport people wouldn't be too happy about giving the public the

impression that their area is teeming with tread-snails, either. They

have enough trouble hiring shipping-floor help as it is."

"But don't you want people to know what you did?" Dad demanded,

incredulously. Everybody wanted their names in print or on 'cast; that

was one of his basic articles of faith. "If the public learned about

this--" he went on, and then saw where he was heading and pulled up

short. It wouldn't be tactful to say something like, "Maybe they

wouldn't think you were just a worthless old soak."

Bish saw where Dad was heading, too, but he just smiled, as though he

were about to confer his episcopal blessing.

"Ah, but that would be a step out of character for me," he said. "I

must not confuse my public. Just as a favor to me, Ralph, say nothing

about it."

"Well, if you'd rather I didn't.... Are you going to cover this

meeting at Hunters' Hall, tonight, Walt?" he asked me.

"Would I miss it?"

He frowned. "I could handle that myself," he said. "I'm afraid this

meeting's going to get a little rough."

I shook my head. "Let's face it, Dad," I said. "I'm a little short of

eighteen, but you're sixty. I can see things coming better than you

can, and dodge them quicker."

Dad gave a rueful little laugh and looked at Bish.

"See how it goes?" he asked. "We spend our lives shielding our young

and then, all of a sudden, we find they're shielding us." His pipe had

gone out again and he relit it. "Too bad you didn't get an audiovisual

of Belsher making that idiotic statement."

"He didn't even know I was getting a voice-only. All the time he was

talking, I was doodling in a pad with a pencil."

"Synthetic substitutes!" Dad snorted. "Putting a synthetic tallow-wax

molecule together would be like trying to build a spaceship with a

jackknife and a tack hammer." He puffed hard on his pipe, and then

excused himself and went back to his work.

Editing an audiovisual telecast is pretty much a one-man job. Bish

wanted to know if he could be of assistance, but there was nothing

either of us could do, except sit by and watch and listen. Dad handled

the Belsher thing by making a film of himself playing off the

recording, and interjecting sarcastic comments from time to time. When

it went on the air, I thought, Ravick wasn't going to like it. I would

have to start wearing my pistol again. Then he made a tape on the

landing of the _Peenemünde_ and the arrival of Murell, who he said had

met with a slight accident after leaving the ship. I took that over to

Julio when Dad was finished, along with a tape on the announced

tallow-wax price cut. Julio only grunted and pushed them aside. He was

setting up the story of the fight in Martian Joe's--a "local bar," of

course; nobody ever gets shot or stabbed or slashed or slugged in

anything else. All the news _is_ fit to print, sure, but you can't

give your advertisers and teleprinter customers any worse name than

they have already. A paper has to use some judgment.

Then Dad and Bish and I went down to dinner. Julio would have his a

little later, not because we're too good to eat with the help but

because, around 1830, the help is too busy setting up the next paper

to eat with us. The dining room, which is also the library, living

room, and general congregating and loafing place, is as big as the

editorial room above. Originally, it was an office, at a time when a

lot of Fenris Company office work was being done here. Some of the

furniture is original, and some was made for us by local cabinetmakers

out of native hardwood. The dining table, big enough for two ships'

crews to eat at, is an example of the latter. Then, of course, there

are screens and microbook cabinets and things like that, and a

refrigerator to save going a couple of hundred feet to the pantry in

case anybody wants a snack.

I went to that and opened it, and got out a bulb of concentrated fruit

juice and a bottle of carbonated water. Dad, who seldom drinks, keeps

a few bottles around for guests. Seems most of our "guests" part with

information easier if they have something like the locally made

hydroponic potato schnapps inside them for courage.

"You drink Baldur honey-rum, don't you, Bish?" he said, pawing among

the bottles in the liquor cabinet next to the refrigerator. "I'm sure

I have a bottle of it. Now wait a minute; it's here somewhere."

When Dad passes on and some medium claims to have produced a spirit

communication from him, I will not accept it as genuine without the

expression: "Now wait a minute; it's here somewhere."

Bish wanted to know what I was fixing for myself, and I told him.

"Never mind the rum, Ralph. I believe," he said, "that I shall join

Walt in a fruit fizz."

Well, whattaya know! Maybe my stealthy temperance campaign was having

results. Dad looked positively startled, and then replaced the bottle

he was holding.

"I believe I'll make it unanimous," he said. "Fix me up a fruit fizz,

too, Walt."

I mixed two more fruit fizzes, and we carried them over to the table.

Bish sipped at his critically.

"Palatable," he pronounced it. "Just a trifle on the mild side, but

definitely palatable."

Dad looked at him as though he still couldn't believe the whole thing.

Dinner was slow coming. We finished our fizzes, and Bish and I both

wanted repeats, and Dad felt that he had to go along. So I made three

more. We were finishing them when Mrs. Laden started bringing in the

dinner. Mrs. Laden is a widow; she has been with us since my mother

died, the year after I was born. She is violently anti-liquor.

Reluctantly, she condones Dad taking a snort now and then, but as soon

as she saw Bish Ware, her face started to stiffen.

She put the soup on the table and took off for the kitchen. She always

has her own dinner with Julio. That way, while they're eating he can

tell her all the news that's fit to print, and all the gossip that

isn't.

For the moment, the odd things I'd been noticing about our

distinguished and temporarily incapacitated visitor came under the

latter head. I told Dad and Bish about my observations, beginning with

the deafening silence about Glenn Murell at the library. Dad began

popping immediately.

"Why, he must be an impostor!" he exclaimed. "What kind of a racket do

you think he's up to?"

"Mmm-mm; I wouldn't say that, not right away," Bish said. "In the

first place, Murell may be his true name and he may publish under a

nom de plume. I admit, some of the other items are a little

suspicious, but even if he isn't an author, he may have some

legitimate business here and, having heard a few stories about this

planetary Elysium, he may be exercising a little caution. Walt, tell

your father about that tallow-wax we saw, down in Bottom Level Fourth

Ward."

I did, and while I was talking Dad sat with his soup spoon poised

halfway to his mouth for at least a minute before he remembered he was

holding it.

"Now, that is funny," he said when I was through. "Why do you

suppose...?"

"Somebody," Bish said, "some group of ship captains, is holding wax

out from the Co-operative. There's no other outlet for it, so my guess

is that they're holding it for a rise in price. There's only one way

that could happen, and that, literally, would be over Steve Ravick's

dead body. It could be that they expect Steve's dead body to be around

for a price rise to come in over."

I was expecting Dad to begin spouting law-and-order. Instead, he hit

the table with his fist; not, fortunately, the one that was holding

the soup spoon.

"Well, I hope so! And if they do it before the _Cape Canaveral_ gets

in, they may fix Leo Belsher, too, and then, in the general

excitement, somebody might clobber Mort Hallstock, and that'd be grand

slam. After the triple funeral, we could go to work on setting up an

honest co-operative and an honest government."

"Well, I never expected to hear you advocating lynch law, Dad," I

said.

He looked at me for a few seconds.

"Tell the truth, Walt, neither did I," he admitted. "Lynch law is a

horrible thing; don't make any mistake about that. But there's one

thing more horrible, and that's no law at all. And that is the present

situation in Port Sandor.

"You know what the trouble is, here? We have no government. No legal

government, anyhow; no government under Federation law. We don't even

have a Federation Resident-Agent. Before the Fenris Company went

broke, it was the government here; when the Space Navy evacuated the

colonists, they evacuated the government along with them. The thousand

who remained were all too busy keeping alive to worry about that. They

didn't even care when Fenris was reclassified from Class III,

uninhabited but inhabitable, to Class II, inhabitable only in

artificial environment, like Mercury or Titan. And when Mort Hallstock

got hold of the town-meeting pseudo government they put together fifty

years ago and turned it into a dictatorship, nobody realized what had

happened till it was too late. Lynch law's the only recourse we have."

"Ralph," Bish told him, "if anything like that starts, Belsher and

Hallstock and Ravick won't be the only casualties. Between Ravick's

goons and Hallstock's police, they have close to a hundred men. I

won't deny that they could be cleaned out, but it wouldn't be a

lynching. It would be a civil war."

"Well, that's swell!" Dad said. "The Federation Government has never

paid us any attention; the Federation planets are scattered over too

many million cubic light-years of space for the Government to run

around to all of them wiping everybody's noses. As long as things are

quiet here, they'll continue to do nothing for us. But let a story hit

the big papers on Terra, _Revolution Breaks Out on Fenris_--and

that'll be the story I'll send to Interworld News--and watch what

happens."

"I will tell you what will happen," Bish Ware said. "A lot of people

will get killed. That isn't important, in itself. People are getting

killed all the time, in a lot worse causes. But these people will all

have friends and relatives who will take it up for them. Start killing

people here in a faction fight, and somebody will be shooting somebody

in the back out of a dark passage a hundred years from now over it.

You want this planet poisoned with blood feuds for the next century?"

Dad and I looked at one another. That was something that hadn't

occurred to either of us, and it should have. There were feuds, even

now. Half the little settlements on the other islands and on the

mainland had started when some group or family moved out of Port

Sandor because of the enmity of some larger and more powerful group or

family, and half our shootings and knife fights grew out of old

grudges between families or hunting crews.

"We don't want it poisoned for the next century with the sort of thing

Mort Hallstock and Steve Ravick started here, either," Dad said.

"Granted." Bish nodded. "If a civil war's the only possible way to get

rid of them, that's what you'll have to have, I suppose. Only make

sure you don't leave a single one of them alive when it's over. But if

you can get the Federation Government in here to clean the mess up,

that would be better. Nobody starts a vendetta with the Terran

Federation."

"But how?" Dad asked. "I've sent story after story off about crime and

corruption on Fenris. They all get the file-and-forget treatment."

Mrs. Laden had taken away the soup plates and brought us our main

course. Bish sat toying with his fork for a moment.

"I don't know what you can do," he said slowly. "If you can stall off

the blowup till the _Cape Canaveral_ gets in, and you can send

somebody to Terra...."

All of a sudden, it hit me. Here was something that would give Bish a

purpose; something to make him want to stay sober.

"Well, don't say, 'If _you_ can,'" I said. "Say, 'If _we_ can.' You

live on Fenris, too, don't you?"

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