Wheels Within Wheels Page 8

  “Sales taxes! What are they?” Tella asked with an amused smile.

  “That’s a new one on you, is it? You’ve heard of the income tax, of course. Most outworlds have it in some form or another. That’s the way the politicos get your money as it enters your pocket. And when they’ve taxed that to the limit the populace will tolerate, they go to work on finding ways to get a piece of what’s left of your money as it comes out of your pocket. That’s called a sales tax: you pay a tribute to the current regime every time you buy something.”

  Jo shook her head in disbelief. “I find it incredible that any population would put up with such abuse. There’d be rioting in the streets here on Ragna if anyone tried to foist that kind of nonsense on us!”

  “Don’t count on it. As that famous Earth philosopher Muniz put it a long time ago: ‘The masses are asses.’ And while I don’t subscribe to such a cynical, elitist point of view, I fear he may have been right. I never cease to be amazed at what people will put up with if it’s presented to them in a pretty package. These tax schemes are always preceded by a propaganda blitz or by a financial crisis that has been either manufactured or caused by the bureaucracy itself. The ‘public good’ is stressed and before you know it, the public has allowed someone else to slip his hand into its pocket. As time goes on, little by little the state manages to funnel more and more money through its myriad bureaus and eventually the politicians are running the entire economy.”

  Jo was still dubious. “Who in his or her right mind would allow politicians to make economic policy? Most of them are small-town lawyers who got involved in planetary politics and wound up in the Federation Assembly. They’ve had a year or so of economic theory in their undergraduate education, usually from a single source, and that’s the extent of their qualifications in the field of economics. How can they possibly have the gall to want to plan the course of an economy that affects the lives of billions of people?”

  “They not only have the gall for it; they will claw and scramble over each other in a mad rush to see who can do more of it.”

  “Okay. Granted, such men exist and some of them are probably in the Federation Assembly. But I’m sure they’re outnumbered.”

  “I’m going to tell you Paxton’s First Law,” Old Pete said, raising his index finger: “Never trust anyone who runs for office.”

  “Maybe it’s time someone paid a visit to Mr. Haas and got some first-hand information,” Easly suggested, getting back to business.

  “Good idea, Larry,” Jo began. “Why don’t you–”

  Old Pete interrupted. “I think Jo and I should go see Mr. Haas ourselves. We’ll go as representatives of IBA; he’s got a product and we want to help him market it. That’s our business. What could be more natural?”

  Tella and Easly agreed that it was a reasonable approach, but Jo objected.

  “Sorry, can’t go. Too much work to do.”

  “You can get away for a while,” Old Pete said. “IBA won’t fall apart without you. And think of the impact on Mr. Haas when the head of IBA pays a personal visit to his humble abode. Why I’m sure he’ll fall all over himself telling us everything we want to know!”

  Everyone laughed and Jo reluctantly agreed to accompany Old Pete to Dil. She hated interstellar travel, hated the wave of nausea that hit her every time the ship came in and out of warp. But Dil wasn’t that far away and IBA employed a first-rate jump engineer for its executive craft. He could probably make the trip in two jumps and that wouldn’t be too bad. She’d bring along some data spools just so the trip wouldn’t be a total loss.

  The conversation turned to other matters and Old Pete leaned back with a smile on his face and sighed with relief.

  Junior

  SOMEONE SPLASHED WATER into his face. It was Heber. His expression was grim as he helped Junior to his feet.

  “I was afraid something like this would happen.”

  “You were, huh? Why didn’t you let me in on it?”

  Junior glanced around as he tried to piece together his whereabouts. He last remembered standing over by the lorry. He had been beaten, then dragged away from it… about half a dozen locals stood around him. Acrid smoke filled the air.

  “The lorry!” he cried, and looked past Heber’s shoulder. The vehicle was still smoking, though covered with a thick coat of hissing foam.

  “Two of Zel Namer’s boys did it,” Heber told him. “They’d been drinking a bit too much, started feeling mean, and things got out of hand. We’ve got them locked up for now. I’m just glad they had the sense to drag you far enough from the lorry so’s you wouldn’t be hurt by the blast.”

  Junior nodded and gingerly felt his swollen face. “So am I.”

  The lorry had been parked about one hundred meters from the town center. The locals must have heard the explosion and come running with fire-fighting equipment. His eyes came to rest on a familiar figure: Bill Jeffers stood off to the side, a spent extinguisher dangling from his hand. He sensed Junior’s scrutiny and turned.

  “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this, Finch,” he said. “Even if you are doing your damnedest to put me out of business.”

  “You know something, Bill,” Junior said in a low voice, “I believe you. And the last thing I want to do is put you out of business. All I want you to do is change a few of your policies.”

  “You’re trying to get me to feed a bunch of half-breeds in my store!”

  “I’m not forcing you to do anything,” Junior said, maintaining a calm, reasoned tone for the benefit of the other locals nearby who were all ears. “Whatever you decide, the choice will be yours and yours alone. I’m just making it more profitable for you to see things my way.”

  Jeffers fumbled for an answer. Failing to find a suitable one, he wheeled and stalked away.

  “Well, whether it’s force or not really doesn’t matter much now,” said Heber, glancing after Jeffers. “Without that lorry, the game is up.”

  Junior nodded slowly, grimly. “I guess it is. Peck will never jeopardize another one, and I can’t say I blame him.”

  “Maybe something can be worked out,” Heber said. His eyes were fixed on the horizon.

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure, yet. But we can always hope, can’t we?”

  “Guess so. But hope by itself has a notoriously poor efficiency record.”

  Heber laughed. “Agreed. And since it doesn’t look like you’re going to make it back to Zarico, you’ll need a place to spend the night. Come on back to the office and I’ll fix you up with a cot.”

  They walked back to the town in silence. Once in the office, Heber reached down between the side of the desk and the wall and pulled out a folding cot.

  “I keep this here for times when it gets too hot upstairs.”

  “You mean you don’t have a temperature regulator?” Junior asked.

  Heber snorted. “The human race may be able to travel between the stars but there’s no temperature regulator in this building, or in any other building in Danzer. You’ve got to get it into your head, Mr. Finch, that people out here are just scraping by. You may see a flitter truck now and again but don’t mistake it for affluence – it’s a necessity for some farmers. We live here at just about the same level as pre-space man back on old Earth. It’s a different story in the capital, of course; but Danzer and Copia might as well be on different planets. And speaking of Copia, I’ve got a call to make.”

  “Where to?”

  “You’ll find out. But for now, why don’t you just lie down on that cot and get some sleep. Things may look better in the morning.”

  Junior doubted that but nodded agreement. When Heber was gone, he lay back on the cot and put his hands behind his head, planning to stay awake until Heber’s return. He was asleep in minutes.

  SOMEONE WAS SHAKING HIM and he opened his eyes. The morning sun was turning from orange to yellow and was streaming through the window into the office.

  “Wake up!�
�� Heber was saying. “I’ve got a vid reporter from the capital waiting to meet you.”

  Junior jerked upright in the cot. “A vid reporter? Is that who you called in Copia last night?”

  Heber nodded. “Yes! And did he jump when I told him what had happened. He seems to think it will make a big story. Wants to meet you right away.”

  “Damn!” Junior said as he rubbed his eyes and rose to his feet. “Why’d you have to go and do that? You should have asked me about it first.”

  “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Not about a vid reporter, I’m not. They bring nothing but trouble.”

  “Trouble’s already here, I’m afraid,” Heber said gravely. “A quick look in the mirror will remind you of that.” Junior gingerly touched his swollen, discolored left cheek as Heber continued. “Maybe the knowledge that the vid’s got an eye on the town will prevent any follow-ups to last night’s incident.”

  Junior considered this a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, but I doubt it. Where is he?”

  “Right outside. C’mon.”

  As Junior stepped from the office he saw a compact man in a bright, clean, tailored suit; he was immediately struck by the incongruity of such apparel in the Danzer setting. As the reporter caught sight of him, he snatched up his recording plate and held it out at arm’s length. Junior suddenly realized that he must look like hell – his hair uncombed, his bruised face unwashed and unshaven, his clothes slept in.

  “Mr. Finch?” said the reporter. “I’m Kevin Lutt from JVS. I’d like to ask you a question or two if I may.”

  “Sure,” Junior said with ill-concealed disinterest. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, first of all, I’d like to get a look at the lorry that was burned.”

  Junior shrugged. “Follow me.” He turned to Heber. “I’ll meet you back here later.”

  Walking ahead as the vid man recorded the scenery, Junior felt ill at ease. He did not relish being probed and questioned about his involvement with the Vanek. It was no one else’s business but his own, but Heber seemed to think an interview would help and things couldn’t get much worse, anyway.

  When they reached the charred remains of the lorry, Junior stood back and watched as the vid reporter set the scene for an interview. He scanned the wreck, then turned his recorder plate on Junior.

  “How does it feel to have so narrowly escaped death, Mr. Finch?”

  “It was no narrow escape. I was dragged a good distance from the lorry before it was fired. No one tried to kill me, just scare me a little.”

  Lutt tried another tack. “Just what are your reasons for getting involved in this?”

  Junior merely shrugged and said, “Wheels within wheels.”

  He didn’t like Lutt and he was feeling more and more uncooperative by the minute. The big outside world was threatening to push its way into Danzer and the little town could be ruined in the process. And it would all be his fault.

  “Did you know there’s legislation pending in the capital that pertains directly to such blatant bigotry as this?”

  “Heard something to that effect.”

  “Then why do you feel it necessary to risk your life to do something that the legislature will do for you in a short time?”

  “First of all, Mr. Lutt, let me repeat that my life has not yet been in danger, and most likely will not be. And as for your question: I have never depended on any legislation to do anything whatsoever for me. As a matter of fact, it usually winds up doing something to me.”

  Lutt brushed this off. “You’re facing a violent, bigoted town, Mr. Finch. The events of last night prove that. Aren’t you just a little afraid?”

  Junior almost lost control on that one. In typical journalese, Lutt was lumping Heber and all those like him in with the likes of the Namer boys.

  “Get lost, Lutt,” he snarled and turned away. He was about to start walking back toward town when a movement in the brush caught his eye.

  In a slow procession, the Vanek were coming. As he stood and watched them approach, he noted that Lutt had repositioned himself with his recorder plate held high. When the entire group had assembled itself in a semi-circle around Junior, the chief elder stepped forward and raised his hand. As one, the forty-odd Vanek bowed low and held the position as the elder presented Junior with a begging bowl and a detailed carving of a Jebinose fruit tree in full bloom.

  “They’ll never believe this at home,” Lutt muttered breathlessly, recording the scene from different angles.

  “Now cut that out!” Junior yelled at the Vanek.

  “But, bendreth,” said the elder, “we wish to pay you honor. You have been harmed on our behalf. This has never happened before and–”

  “And nothing! The whole idea of this little campaign was to get you to assert yourselves and demand the dignity and respect you deserve. I turn around and the next thing I know you’re bowing and scraping. Cut it out and stand erect!”

  “But you don’t understand, bendreth,” said the elder.

  “I think I do,” Junior said softly, “and I’ll treasure these gifts for as long as I live, but let’s forget about gratitude and all that for now. Our main concern at the moment is a replacement for the lorry. Until we can get one, you’ll just have to hold out. Borrow from each other, share what food you have until we can get some transportation. Whatever you do, hold to the plan until you hear from me.”

  The elder nodded and started to bow, but caught himself. “Yes, bendreth.”

  “And don’t bow to anyone – ever.” He gave a quick wave and started for the town. Lutt trotted up behind him.

  “Mr. Finch, you’ve just made me a famous man. If I don’t get a journalism award for this recording, no one will. I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

  Junior increased his stride and kept his face averted as he replied. The simple unabashed gratitude in the little Vanek ceremony had moved him more than he cared to admit. As he hurried toward town clutching the bowl and the statue, one under each arm, his eyes were tilled with tears.

  “You can get lost,” he told Lutt.

  HEBER SMILED AND SHOOK his head as Junior gave him a quick rundown of what had happened.

  “You can’t blame them, really,” he said. “Every once in a while a Terran will go out of his way for a Vanek, but you’re the first one they’ve ever known to take a beating on their behalf. You’ll probably rate a spot on one of the major spokes of the Great Wheel when they tell their grandchildren about you.” He paused, then, “How’d you get on with Lutt?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid. How would you feel if you were tired, dirty, grubby, and hungry, and some fast-talking reporter was sticking his recorder plate in your face and asking a lot of stupid questions?”

  “Not too much like being friendly, I suppose,” Heber admitted.

  “And even under the best of conditions I doubt if you’d have liked the timbre of his questions.”

  Heber shrugged. “I expect some smug generalizations to come out of this, but publicity – even unfair publicity – may save you from another beating.”

  Junior rubbed his tender jaw. “I’m all for that.”

  HEBER ENTERED HIS OFFICE the next morning with a news sheet clutched in his hand. Junior was just finishing off a breakfast ration pack.

  “Here – read this! It’s fresh from the capital.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “About half a dozen reporters came in this morning. One of them gave it to me.” Heber beamed. “We’re all over the front page!”

  It was true. The first sheet of the vid service’s printed counterpart was devoted entirely to the doings in Danzer. As Junior skimmed the story under Lutt’s byline, he saw himself portrayed as a mysterious, close-mouthed crusader against bigotry. And in the middle of the front page was a large photo of the Vanek kneeling in homage to him.

  “This is incredible! Lutt has played me up like some sort of fictional vid hero!
”

  “There’s not much else doing on Jebinose, I guess, and you seem to make good copy.”

  Junior dropped the sheet on the desk in disgust and went to the window.

  “Where are they now?”

  “If I said they were out back, where would you go?”

  “Out front!”

  “Well, don’t worry too much now. They’re well occupied down the street at the moment with Bill Jeffers. Probably asking him some very pointed questions.”

  “Oh no!” Junior went to the door and peered out. He could see Jeffers standing in the doorway of his store, surrounded by reporters.

  “What’s the matter?” Heber asked.

  “Does Jeffers have a short temper?”

  “He gets hot pretty fast, yes.”

  “Then I’d better get down there,” he said, and was out the door.

  As he hurried down the street, he noted that Jeffers was posed in the stance of a cornered animal, his face red, his eyes bright, his muscles coiled to spring. Junior broke into a loping run. It could well be the intention of one of the reporters to provoke the storekeeper into violence – something to make good vid viewing. It wouldn’t help the Vanek cause to have the media make a fool of Jeffers and portray him as a violence-prone imbecile; it would only serve to double his obstinance.

  “Well, well! ‘The Crusader Against Bigotry’ has arrived!” Jeffers called and waved a news sheet in the air as he caught sight, of Junior approaching.

  The reporters immediately forgot Jeffers and turned on Junior with a flurry of questions.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, elbowing his way by them. “Right now I have something to discuss with Mr. Jeffers.”

  An overweight reporter in a bright green jumper blocked his path. “We have some questions to ask you first, Mr. Finch.” He thrust his recorder plate in Junior’s face.

  “No you don’t,” was the tight-lipped reply.

  The recorder plate clicked on as the reporter started his interview, oblivious to whatever else Junior had in mind. “Now, first off, just where are you from? Rumor has it that you’re an offworlder and I think you should divulge your–”