Underhill was inclined to disagree. “She’s all right. As she said, she’s just an administrator. It’s the tcirkomars who are the pressure group here. They’re a powerful bloc.”
“They run Venus. I know.” Munn grimaced. “It’s difficult to understand the psychology of these people. They seem unalterably opposed to change. We represent change. So they figure they’ll simply ignore us.,’
“It won’t work,” Underhill said. “Even if we starve to death, there’ll be more Earth ships later.”
“The same gag could work on them, too.”
“Starvation? But—”
“Passive resistance. There’s no law compelling Venusians to treat with Earthmen. They can simply adopt a closed-door policy, and there’s not a thing we can do about it. There’s no welcome mat on Venus.”
Mike Soaring Eagle broke a long silence as they emerged to the canal bank. “It’s a variation of ancestor worship, their psychology. Transferred egotism, perhaps-a racial inferiority complex.”
Munn shook his head. “You’re drawing it a bit fine.”
“All right, maybe I am. But it boils down to worship of the past. And fear. Their present social culture has worked for centuries. They want no intrusions. It’s logical. If you had a machine that worked perfectly at the job for which it had been designed, would you want improvements?”
“Why not?” Munn said. “Certainly I would.”
“Why?”
“Well, to save time. If a new attachment would make the machine double its production, I’d want that.”
The Navaho looked thoughtful. “Suppose it turned out-say-refrigerators. There’d be repercussions.
You’d need less labor, which would upset the economic structure.”
“Microscopically.”
“In that case. But there’d also be a change in the consumer’s angle. More people would have refrigerators. More people would make homemade ice cream. Sales on ice cream would drop-retail sales. The wholesalers would buy less milk. The farmers would—”
“I know,” Munn said. “For want of a nail the kingdom was lost. You’re speaking of microcosms.
Even if you weren’t, there are automatic adjustments-there always are.”
“An experimental, growing civilization is willing to stand for such adjustments,” Mike Soaring Eagle pointed out. “The Venusians are ultraconservative. They figure they don’t need to grow or change any more. Their system has worked for centuries. It’s perfectly integrated. Intrusion of anything might upset the apple cart. The tarkoinars have the power, and they intend to keep it.”
“So we starve,” Underhill put in.
The Indian grinned at him. “Looks like it. Unless we can dope out some way of making money.”
““We ought to,” Munn said. “We were chosen for our I.Q., among other things.”
“Our talents aren’t too suitable,” Mike Soaring Eagle remarked, kicking a stone into the canal.
“You’re a physicist. I’m a naturalist. Bronson’s an engineer and Steve Thirkell’s a sawbones. You, my useless young friend, are a rich man’s son.”
Underhill smiled in an embarrassed fashion. “Well, dad flame up the hard way. He knew how to make money. That’s what we need now, isn’t it?”
“How did he clean up?”
“Stock market.”
“That helps a lot,” Munn said. “I think our best plan is to find some process the Venusians really need, and then sell it to them.”
“If we could wireless back to Earth for help—” Underhill began.
“—then we’d have nothing to worry about,” the Navaho ended. “Unfortunately Venus has a Heaviside layer, so we can’t wireless. You’d better try your hand at inventing something, skipper. But whether or not the Venusians will want it afterwards, I don’t know.”
Munn brooded. “The status quo can’t remain permanently that way. It ain’t sensible, as my grandfather used to say about practically everything. There are always inventors. New processes-they’ve got to be assimilated into the social set-up. I should be able to dope out a gadget. Even a good preservative for foods might do it.”
“Not with the hydroponic gardens producing as they do.”
“Um-m. A better mousetrap-something useless but intriguing. A one-armed bandit—”
“They’d pass a law against it.”
“Well, you suggest something.”
“The Venusians don’t seem to know much about genetics. If I could produce some unusual foods by crossbreeding… eh?”
“Maybe,” Munn said. “Maybe.”
Steve Thirkell’s pudgy face looked into the port. The rest of the party were seated at the table, scribbling on stylopads and drinking weak coffee.
“I have an idea,” Thirkell said.
Munn grunted. “I know your ideas. What is it now?”
“Very simple. A plague strikes the Venusians and I find an antivirus that will save them. They will be grateful—”
“-and you’ll marry Jorust and rule the planet,” Munn finished. “Ha!”
“Not exactly,” Thirkell went on imperturbably. “If they’re not grateful, we’ll simply hold out on the antitoxin till they pay up.”
“The only thing wrong with that brainstorm is that the Venusians don’t seem to be suffering from a plague,” Mike Soaring Eagle pointed out. “Otherwise it’s perfect.”
Thirkell sighed. “I was afraid you’d mention that. Maybe we could be unethical-just a little, you know-and start a plague. Typhoid or something.”
“What a man!” the Navaho said admiringly. “You’d make a grand murderer, Steve.”
“I have often thought so. But I didn’t intend to go as far as murder. A painful, incapacitating disease—”
“Such as?” Munn asked.
“Diphtheria?” the murderous physician suggested hopefully.
“A cheerful prospect,” Mike Soaring Eagle muttered. “You sound like an Apache.”
“Diphtheria, beriberi, leprosy, bubonic plague,” Pat Bronson said violently. “I vote for all of ’em.
Give the nasty little frogs a taste of their own medicine. Wallop ’em good.”
“Suppose we let you start a mild plague,” Munn said. “Something that couldn’t conceivably be fatal—how would you go about it?”
“Pollute the water supply or something… eh?”
“So. What with?”
Thirkell suddenly looked heartbroken. “Oh! Oh!”
Munn nodded. “The Goodwill isn’t stocked for that sort of thing. We’re germless. Antiseptic inside and out. Have you forgotten the physical treatment they gave us before we left?”
Bronson cursed. “Never will I forget that-a hypo every hour! Antitoxins, shots, ultraviolet X-rays, till my bones turned green.”
“Exactly,” Munn said. “We’re practically germless. It’s a precaution they had to take, to prevent our starting a plague on Venus.”
“But we want to start a plague,” Thirkell said plaintively.
“You couldn’t even give a Venusian a head cold,” Munn told him. “So that’s out. What about Venusian anaesthetics? Are they as good as ours?”
“Better,” the physician admitted. “Not that they need them, except for the children. Their synapses are funny. They’ve mastered self-hypnosis so they can block pain when it’s necessary.”
“Sulfa drugs?”
“I’ve thought of that. They’ve got those, too.”
“My idea,” Bronson broke in, “is water power. Or dams. Whenever it rains, there’s a flood.”
“There’s good drainage, though,” Munn said. “The canals take care of that.”
“Now let me finish! Those fish-skinned so-and-sos have hydropower, but it isn’t efficient. There’s so much fast water all over the place that they build plants wherever it seems best-thousands of them-and half the time they’re useless, when the rains concentrate on another district. Half of the plants are inoperable all the time. Which costs money. If they’d build dams, they’d have a steady source of power — without the terrific overhead.”