[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine December 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Interstellar trouble-shooting is the
easiest work there is. All you need is
brains, energy--and a steno with nice legs!
Andrew Stephens was trying to think of two things at once, and it
wasn't working out. An inspirational message (delivered by Crumbly,
president of Planetary Promotions, Inc.) was mixing itself up in his
mind with the probable difficulties of his first company assignment.
He hoped he was thinking, and not worrying. Crumbly said worry was
fatal in the promotion business. It was fervor, not fret, Crumbly said,
that had made Planetary Promotions, Inc., what it was today. And it
was work, not worry, that would make it what it was destined to be
tomorrow.
Andy Stephens stared at the farthest corner of his office (about four
feet from his nose) and sighed. He didn't have a slogan in his body,
let alone on (or off) the top of his head.
His assignment was an easy one, Crumbly had assured him. Planetary
Promotions always started new men off with easy ones. Only fair.
Andy squared his narrowish shoulders in as close an imitation of
Crumbly's desk-side manner as he could, and picked up the dope sheet.
It seemed there was a planet, Felix II, somewhere near the edge of
nowhere. It wanted to join the Galactic Federation.
A laudable desire, Andy thought, but strictly a political matter,
having nothing to do with Planetary Promotions, or Andrew Stephens.
However, it also seemed that a planet had to demonstrate that it would
be contributing something to the Federation before it was allowed to
join. In other words, Andy thought, you have to have something they
want, or they won't let you in.
A buzzer squawked out of the dun-colored box on his desk. Andy jumped,
and flipped the lever.
"The bus to the port will be at the door in seven minutes," the grim
voice of the Lower Office Co-ordinator told him. "A stenographer will
meet you on the ship."
"Thank you, Miss Ellis," Andy said meekly. He stuffed the dope sheet
into his jacket and left the Main Office for Felix II.
* * * * *
"Excuse me," said a feminine voice. "Are you with Planetary Promotions?"
Andy looked up. A sandy-haired girl with a passable figure and nice
legs was looking down at him. "Yes," he said. "I'm Andy Stephens."
The girl looked relieved. "I'm Edith Featherpenny from the steno pool,"
she said. "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find you."
"Sit down," Andy invited.
He moved, and Miss Featherpenny moved. Between them, they unsettled a
large woman eating an orange. When the juice had been mopped up and the
woman apologized to, Miss Featherpenny squeezed in beside Andy.
"Is that the information on the case?" She indicated the dope sheet
crumpled under Andy's arm.
"Yes." Andy tried to pull it out. "Were you issued one?" He moved his
elbow and tried again.
The orange woman glared at him.
Miss Featherpenny shook her head. "Miss Ellis told me you'd tell me
everything I needed to know."
Andy felt obscurely flattered. "It doesn't look too promising," he
admitted.
Miss Featherpenny glanced at the dope sheet and found a ray of hope.
"The Federation only requires that the Felician exports are nearly as
valuable as their imports," she pointed out. "'Nearly' is a nice vague,
maneuverable word."
"But," said Andy, "if the Felicians can't think of anything to sell,
how do they expect me to?"
"Maybe they're too isolated to know what's in demand," Miss
Featherpenny comforted him. "It says they won't authorize ships to
land on the planet except by invitation."
"It might be isolation, I suppose," Andy doubted. He felt an urge to
confide in Miss Featherpenny. She did, after all, look as if there
might be something besides fluff in her head.
"Look," he said. "This is my first assignment, on my fourth job, on my
second career. I've got to make good. My father is beginning to get
impatient."
Miss Featherpenny's eyes grew softer. "Fathers are usually more patient
than their children think," she encouraged.
"But," Andy added morosely, "I have a brother, a salesman with
Universal Products. He keeps getting promoted, and I keep getting
fired. Dad must be conscious of the contrast."
"Maybe," Miss Featherpenny suggested, "your brother's been lucky. You
know, being assigned jobs that were easier than they sound."
Andy glanced at her to see if he was being humored. He decided he
was not, or not much. "I've tried to believe that," he admitted.
"Unfortunately, Lloyd keeps proving me wrong. He got his last promotion
for selling fancy food products to the Mahridgians."
Miss Featherpenny had obviously never even heard of Mahridge.
"They have a strong taboo against eating," Andy explained. "They
swallow concentrates to keep alive, but it's still not quite decent. On
Mahridge, it's the dining room, not the bathroom, that has a door with
a lock on it for privacy.
"Is he married?" asked Miss Featherpenny, who didn't intend to be a
steno all her life. "I mean," she added quickly, "his wife would get
anxious about his selling something like that, that could get him put
in prison, or killed. How did he do it?"
There was a certain coolness in Andy's voice. "He took a lead from the
dope peddlers. He converted the adolescent Mahridgians first. It's all
right to eat on Mahridge now."
Miss Featherpenny diplomatized. "I don't think that's ethical.
Convincing people to do what they think is wrong."
Andy was still suspicious. He said, "Ethical or not, he got the
promotion."
* * * * *
They stood at the edge of the only launching pad on Felix II, and
surveyed the landscape. Thirty feet away, there was a barnsized stone
building with a weedy roof. Aside from some rounded blue hills in the
distance, and a Felician leaning against the building, there was not
much to detain the eye.
Miss Featherpenny giggled softly in surprise. "He looks like a
leprechaun," she said. "The sheet didn't say that."
"Tourist trade," Andy breathed, his eyes gleaming with the solution of
his problem.
Since the two-foot-tall welcoming committee showed no signs of moving,
they started toward him.
"My name," Andy said in Galactic, "is Andrew Stephens. I'm here from
Planetary Promotions."
"I know," the Felician muttered ungraciously. "I came out from town to
meet you. My name is Blahrog. Who's this?"
"My steno, Miss Featherpenny."
"Urk." Obviously Blahrog had never heard the term "steno" and
was interpreting it freely. "I'm in charge of our admission to
the Federation. That means I'm in charge of you." He eyed Andy
unenthusiastically. "You haven't had much experience with this kind of
thing, have you?"
Andy had a wild rush of hope. If the Felician government rejected him
as a representative, he could go home without a failure on his record,
and pray for a simpler assignment. Even P. P. didn't consider an agent
responsible for the unpredictable whims of aliens.
"No, I haven't," he replied cheerfully. "I was hoping maybe you had."
Miss Featherpenny, who hadn't read the contract, gasped.
Blahrog, who had read the contract, replied, "I haven't. Let's get on
into town where we can discuss the possibilities in comfort."
They set out, walking unequally through the thick white dust that
passed for paving on Felix II.
"Don't you use ground cars?" Miss Featherpenny choked at the end of the
first half-mile.
"Don't have technology," Blahrog growled, stumping grimly along. "The
Everking has a car, but he doesn't use it much. No fuel."
As he walked, Andy composed a speech on the merits of the tourist
business, to be delivered to the Everking.
Miss Featherpenny grew visibly more depressed with each mile. She
uttered an involuntary cry when the guard of the city gate appeared
with a slender mug in each hand.
"Felician ladies don't drink," Blahrog said gruffly.
"I can fetch you a glass of water," the guard offered, without
enthusiasm.
"Thank you," said Miss Featherpenny, with an attempt at sincerity.
The contents of his mug made Andy choke. "Tastes something like
cider," he gasped.
Blahrog downed his without a wink. "It's customary to give a guest a
mug of Throatduster as a sign of gratitude because he walked so far in
the dust."
"In this dust," Miss Featherpenny murmured to her second glass of
water, "any distance is far."
"Thoughtful custom," Andy said quickly. "Could you export the beverage?"
"Sell Throatduster?" Blahrog was indignant. "It would be a breach of
hospitality. Besides, Felix II can't produce enough second-rate stuff,
let alone first-rate. Sometimes, in a bad year, we have to greet guests
with water."
"What a pity," said Miss Featherpenny.
* * * * *
She became increasingly unsympathetic as Andy swallowed another
Throatduster at the door of the Palace (a one-story building similar
to a small barn), and yet another in the presence of the Everking (an
eighteen-inch Felician with a beard-warmed paunch).
Andy watched the Everking dim and blur on his wooden throne. Swaying
slightly, he muttered, "I wonder what proof this stuff is?"
"In short, Mr. Stephens," Blahrog was translating, "we cannot think
of a single product which we could sell. Have you any immediate
suggestions?"
Blahrog's expression indicated that he ought to say something, but
Andy couldn't think of a thing, except that he didn't need any more
Throatduster. "No," he said firmly, if faintly. "Thank you very much,
but no." He passed out cold.
"I'm afraid the journey was too much for him," Miss Featherpenny put in.
"Ah, yes," Blahrog translated for the Everking. "Throatduster has that
effect on some life forms. Perhaps he had better retire, and discuss
the situation more fully tomorrow."
The Everking motioned to a pair of stout-looking guards (thirty inches
tall, at least). They towed Miss Featherpenny's immediate superior out
of the royal presence.
"They will show him to his room," Blahrog explained.
The Everking let loose a quick stream of Felician.
"Would you," Blahrog addressed Miss Featherpenny, "enjoy meeting my
daughter? The Everking suggests it, since our affairs could hardly be
of interest to you."
"I'd be very pleased." The words were not empty ones. Edith
Featherpenny's education in coping with men had not extended to
Felician males. Blahrog frightened her with a feeling of superior and
incomprehensible intelligence.
Hrom, although seventeen inches tall and weighing perhaps eleven
pounds, was definitely feminine and comprehensible.
"Why don't women drink Throatduster?" Miss Featherpenny asked, on the
strength of a two-hour acquaintance.
"The men grow the grain here," Hrom explained, "and it's theirs as long
as it's in the fields. However, we consider harvesting women's work. We
also make the Throatduster. Then we sell it to the men. We don't drink
because it is uneconomical."
"Does everyone grow his own grain?"
"Not any more. Town women have other sources of dress money. The custom
started that way, that's all."
"If you'll forgive my saying so," Miss Featherpenny remarked, "that
dress you are wearing must have taken a big chunk out of your pocket."
Hrom sighed. "In my mother's time, I would have thought nothing of it.
Now, one such gown is all I can afford."
"I would have thought your father was one of the wealthier men on Felix
II," Miss Featherpenny remarked.
"He is _the_ wealthiest," Hrom said. "The richest man is always
Minister of Finance. It's only reasonable." Her tone changed. "We're
all poor now, since the tourist industry failed. It took every dnot we
had to pay for the contract."
Invisible antennae shot from Miss Featherpenny's forehead. "You must
be quite sure that Planetary Promotions won't fail you." She tried her
best to sound casual.
Hrom smiled faintly. "Have another of these seed cakes," she said.
"Thank you. They are delicious." Miss Featherpenny took one, regardless
of calories. "Of course, there is the guarantee clause: 'Double your
money back.'"
Hrom busily fluffed a cushion. "One must have some insurance," she
said, having her turn at sounding casual. "Tell me, are they wearing
large or small hats on Earth this season?"
Miss Featherpenny conceded defeat. "It's all bonnets for summer," she
said.
* * * * *
Her first impulse was to tell Andy that she thought the Felicians
had bought the guarantee clause, not the contract. It died at her
first sight of the morning-after Andy. The situation must be pretty
desperate, she rationalized, when the wealthiest girl on the planet
has only one dress. This is probably their last chance.
Andy tried to conceal his headache by being brisk and efficient. "Have
you considered your natural resources?"
Blahrog, slow and shrewdly inefficient, said, "We mine soft coal.
Enough for our own fires and to spare."
"No one within a hundred light-years of Felix II uses coal for fuel
anymore," Andy said gently. "Do you have enough for the plastic
industries?"
"We have four freighters surplus every season." Blahrog was evidently
banking heavily on the coal.
Andy wondered if coal were the only surplus on Felix II. "What are you
doing with your surplus at present?" he inquired tactfully, hoping
that Blahrog would realize, without being told, the impossibility of
supporting the population of Felix II on four freighters of soft coal.
"We store it up," was the crafty answer, "and sell it to the synthetics
plants on Darius IV when the Ionian miners go on strike."
"How long since the Ionians struck?" If this economic event occurred
regularly, the coal surplus could assist in meeting the Federation's
requirements.
"Twenty seasons or so." Blahrog's tone was off-handed, but his eyes
slid guiltily toward Andy and away again.