“Higher morale, all over,” Sam muttered. “Because they can improve their lot.”
“Right. Then Cholly started paying top dollar for pipe-leaf traders, and …”
“A drug baron!”
“Suppose you could call him that. But it turned out there was a market for it—the drug’s very low-bulk after it’s processed, you see; and it doesn’t provide euphoria or kill pain, but it does retard the aging process. So Universal Pharmaceuticals was interested, and Interstellar Geriatrics, and …”
“I get the picture. Top money.”
“But it costs a lot, too—especially at first, when it was a little on the hazardous side. But Cholly was bringing in trade goods that made glass beads just sharp-cornered gravel, so once we managed to get trade started, it mushroomed.”
“And all of a sudden, the Wolmen weren’t quite so hostile any more.” Sam nodded.
“Aw, you peeked.” Dar scuffed at the turf with his boot-toe. “And from there, of course, it was just a little fast talking to get them to agree to the chalk-fights.”
“So trade is growing, and morale is growing, and you’re taking the first steps toward a unified society, and everybody feels as though they’ve got some opportunity, and …” Sam broke off, shaking her head, dazzled. “I can’t believe it! The central planets are mired in malaise and self-pity, and out here in the marches, you’ve managed to build a growing, maybe even hopeful, society! Back on Terra, everybody’s living in walking despair because nobody feels they can make things better.”
“What?” Dar was shocked. “But they’ve got everything! They’ve …”
“Got nothing,” Sam sneered. “On Terra, you’ll die doing the job your father did, and everybody knows it. You’ve got your rooms, your servos, and your rations. And that’s it.”
“But even beggars have whole houses—with furniture that makes anything here look like firewood! And they don’t have to do a lick of housework, with all those servos—their free time’s all free!”
“Free to do what—rot?”
“To do anything they want! I mean, even a rube like me has heard what’s included in those rations.”
Sam shrugged. “Sure, you can get drunk or stoned every night, and you can go out to a party or go to a show …”
Dar gave a whimpering sigh.
“… but actually do something? No chance! Unless you’re born into government—and even they can’t figure out anything worth doing.”
“But …” Dar flailed at the sky. “But there’s a thousand worlds out there to conquer!”
“Why bother?” She smiled bitterly. “We’ve done that already—and it hasn’t improved things back on Terra much.”
“Hasn’t improved!? But your poorest beggar lives like a medieval king!”
“Oh, does she?” Sam’s eyes glittered. “Where’re the servants, the musicians, the courtiers, the knights willing to fight for her smile?”
“Even a Terran reject has three or four servos! They’ll even turn on the audio for him—and there’s your musicians!”
“And the courtiers? The knights?” Sam shook her head. “What made a king royal was being able to command other people—and there’s no coin that’ll buy that!”
Dar could only stare.
Then he gave his head a quick shake, pushing out a whistle. “Boy! That’s sick!”
“Also decadent.” She smiled, with Pyrrhic triumph. “They’re moribund there. What I can’t figure out is how you folks avoid it.”
Dar shrugged. “Because we’re already at the bottom? I mean, once you’ve landed here, there’s no place to go but up!”
“There’s no place to go, period!” Sam’s eyes lit. “Maybe that’s it—because it’s out here in the marches! Out here, on the edge of civilization—because anything you’re going to do, you’re going to have to do for yourselves. Terra’s too far away to send help. And too far away to really be able to run you, either. By the time they can tell you not to do something, you’ve already been doing it for a year! And because …” She clamped her mouth shut.
“Because they really don’t care?” Dar grinned. “Because this place is a hole, and the only people Terra sends out here are the ones they want to forget about? I wouldn’t be surprised if they even wanted to get rid of Shacklar.”
“Of course; he was a threat to the ones with the real power. I mean, after all, he’s capable. He was bound to make waves. Which I’m about to do too.”
“I’m braced.” Dar tried to hide the smile.
“You still haven’t shown me how you’re not really fleecing the natives.”
“No, I haven’t, have I. But it does take showing. We start trading at sundown.”
2
That’s not the way to make a campfire,” Sam pointed out.
“What would you know about it?” Dar blithely heaped green sticks and leaves onto the flaming kindling. “You’re a city girl.”
“Who says?”
“You. You said you came from Terra, and it’s just one great big city.”
“It is, but we’ve kept a few parks, like the Rockies. I do know you’re supposed to use dry wood.”
“Entirely correct.” Dar smiled up at the roiling column of thick gray smoke turning gold in the sunset.
Sam sighed. “All right, so you’re trying to attract attention. What do we use for cooking?”
“Why bother?” Dar started foraging in the foodbag. “All we’ve got is cheese and crackers. And raisin wine, of course.”
Sam shuddered.
Darkness came down, and company came up—five Wolmen, each with a bale on his shoulder
“Ah! Company for cordials!” Dar rubbed his hands, then reached for the bottle and the glasses.
“Get ‘em drunk before they start bargaining, huh?” Sam snorted.
“That’d take more liquor than I can pack. But they count it friendly.” He stepped toward the arrivals, raising the bottle. “How!”
“You not know, me not tell you,” the first grunted, completing the formula. “Good seeing, Dar Mandra.”
“Good to see you, too, Hirschmeir.” Dar held out a handful of glasses; the Wolman took one, and so did each of his mates as they came up. Dar poured a round and lifted his glass. “To trade!”
“And profit,” Hirschmeir grunted. He drank half his glass. “Ah! Good swill after long hike. And hot day gathering pipeweed.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dar sympathized. “And it brings so little, too.”
“Five point three eight kwahers per ounce on Libra exchange,” a second Wolman said promptly.
Dar looked up in surprise. “That’s the fresh quote, right off today’s cargo ship. Where’d you get it?”
“You sell us nice wireless last month,” Hirschmeir reminded. “Tell Sergeant Walstock him run nice music service.”
“Sure will.” Dar pulled out a pad and scribbled a note.
“Little heavy on drums, though,” another Wolman said thoughtfully.
“Gotcha, Slotmeyer.” Dar scribbled again. “More booze, anybody?”
Five glasses jumped out. Dar whistled, walking around with the bottle, then picked up a bale. “Well. Let’s see what we’re talking about.” He plopped the bale onto the front of the grav-sled.
“Twenty-seven point three two kilograms,” the sled reported. “Ninety-seven percent Organum Translucem, with three percent grasses, leaf particles, and sundry detritus.”
“The sundry’s the good part.” Dar hefted the bale back off the sled and set it about halfway between himself and Hirschmeir.
“You sure that thing not living?” one of the Wolmen demanded.
“Sure. But it’s got a ghost in it.”
“No ghost in machine.” The Wolman shook his head emphatically.
Dar looked up sharply, then frowned. “Did I sell you folks that cubook series on the history of philosophy?”