“Money,” Bronson said.
“No. Earth’s on the radium standard. Years ago it was gold or silver. Venus is on iron. And there’s the barter system, too. Money’s a variable.”
“Money represents natural resources—” Thirkell began.
“Man-hours,” Munn put in quietly.
Underhill jumped. “That’s it! Of course-man-hours! That’s the constant. The amount of production a man can turn out in an hour represents an arbitrary constant-two dollars, a dozen difals or whatever it is. That’s the base for any economic set-up. And it’s the base we’ve got to hit. The ancestor worship, the power of the tarkomars-they’re superficial really. Once the basic system is challenged, they’ll go down.”
“I don’t see where it gets us,” Thirkell said.
“Make the man-hours variable,” Underhill explained. “Once we do that, anything can happen.”
“Something had better happen,” Bronson said, “and quick. We’ve little food left.”
“Shut up,” Munn said. “I think the kid’s got the right angle. Alter the man-hour constant, eh? How can we do that? Specialized training? Train a Venusian to turn out twice as much stuff in the same period of time? Skilled labor?”
“They’ve got skilled labor,” Underhill said. “If we could make ’em work faster, or increase their stamina—”
“Benzedrine plus,” Thirkell interrupted. “With enough caffeine, vitamin complex and riboflavin-I could whip up a speeder-upper, all right.”
Munn nodded slowly. “Pills, not shots. If this works out, we’ll have to do it undercover after a while.”
“What the devil will it get us to make the Venusians work faster?” Bronson asked.
Underhill snapped his fingers. “Don’t you see? Venus is ultraconservative. The economic system is frozen static. It isn’t adapted to change. There’ll be hell popping!”
Munn said, “We’ll need advertising to arouse public interest first of all. A practical demonstration.”
He looked around the table, his gaze settling on Mike Soaring Eagle. “Looks like you’re elected, Redskin. You’ve more stamina than any of us, according to the tests we took back on Earth.”
“All right,” the Navaho said. “What do I do?”
“Work!” Underhill told him. “Work till you drop!”
It began early the next morning in the main plaza of Vyring. Munn had checked up carefully, determined to make sure nothing would go wrong, and had learned that a recreation building was to be constructed on the site of the plaza. “Work won’t start for several weeks,” Jorust said. “Why?”
“We want to dig a hole there,” Munn said. “Is it legal?”
The Venusian smiled. “Why, of course. That’s public domain-until the contractors begin. But a demonstration of your muscular prowess won’t help you, I’m afraid.”
“Eh?”
“I’m not a fool. You’re trying to land a job. You hope to do that by advertising your abilities. But why do it in just this way? Anybody can dig a hole. It isn’t specialized.”
Munn grunted. If Jorust wanted to jump at that conclusion, swell. He said, “It pays to advertise. Put a steam shovel to work, back on Earth, and a crowd will gather to watch it. We don’t have a steam shovel, but—”
“Well, whatever you like. Legally you’re within your rights. Nevertheless you can’t hold a job without joining a tarkoinar.”
“Sometimes I think your planet would be a lot better off without the tarkoinars,” Munn said bluntly.
Jorust moved her shoulders. “Between ourselves, I have often thought so. I am merely an administrator, however. I have no real power. I do what I’m told to do. If I were permitted, I would be glad to lend you the money you need—”
“What?” Munn looked at her. “I thought—”
The woman froze. “It is not permitted. Tradition is not always wisdom, but I can do nothing about it.
To defy the tarkomars is unthinkable and useless. I am sorry.”
Munn felt a little better after that, somehow. The Venusians weren’t all enemies. The all-powerful tarkomars, jealous of their power, fanatically desirous of preserving the status quo, were responsible for this mess.
When he got back to the plaza, the others were waiting. Bronson had rigged up a scoreboard, in phonetic Venusian, and had laid out mattock, pick, shovel, wheelbarrow and boards for the Navaho, who stood, a brawny, red-bronze figure, stripped to the waist in the cool wind. A few canal-boats had stopped to watch.
Munn looked at his watch. “O.K., Redskin. Let’s go. Steve can start—”
Underhill began to beat a drum. Bronson put figures on the scoreboard: 4:03:00, Venusian Vyring Time. Thirkell went to a nearby camp table, littered with bottles and medical equipment, shook from a vial one of the stimulant pills he had concocted, and gave it to Mike Soaring Eagle. The Indian ate it, heaved up the mattock and went to work.
That was all.
A man digging a hole. Just why the spectacle should be so fascinating no one has ever figured out.
The principle remains the same, whether it’s a steam shovel scooping out half a ton of earth at a bite, or a sweating, stocky Navaho wielding shovel and pick. The boats grew thicker.
Mike Soaring Eagle kept working. An hour passed. Another. There were regular, brief rest periods, and Mike kept rotating his tools, to get all his muscles into play. After breaking earth for a while with the mattock, he would shovel it into the wheelbarrow, roll his burden up a plank and dump it on an ever growing pile some distance away. Three hours. Four. Mike knocked off for a brief lunch. Bronson kept track of the time on his scoreboard.
Thirkell gave the Navaho another pill. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine. I’m tough enough.”
“I know, but these stimulants-they’ll help.”
Underhill was at a typewriter. He had already ground out a tremendous lot of copy, for he had been working since Mike Soaring Eagle started. Bronson had discovered a long-forgotten talent and was juggling makeshift Indian clubs and colored balls. He’d been keeping that up for quite a while, too.
Captain Rufus Munn was working a sewing machine. He didn’t especially like the task, but it was precision work, and therefore helpful to the plan. All the party except Thirkell was doing something, and the physician was busy administering pills and trying to look like an alchemist.
Occasionally he visited Munn and Underhill, collected stacks of paper and carefully sewn scraps of cloth, and deposited them in various boxes near the canal, labelled, “Take One.” On the cloth a legend was machine-embroidered in Venusian: “A Souvenir from Earth.” The crowds thickened.
The Earthmen worked on. Bronson kept juggling, with pauses for refreshment. Eventually he experimented with coin and card tricks. Mike Soaring Eagle kept digging. Munn sewed. Underhill continued to type-and the Venusians read what his flying fingers turned out.
“Free! Free! Free!” the leaflets said. “Souvenir pillow-case covers from Earth! A free show! Watch the Earthmen demonstrate stamina, dexterity and precision in four separate ways. How long can they keep it up? With the aid of POWER PILLS-indefinitely! Their output is doubled and their precision increased by POWER PILLS-they pep you upA medical product of Earth that can make any man worth twice his weight in sofals!”
It went on like that. The old army game-with variations. The Venusians couldn’t resist. Word got around. The mob thickened. How long could the Earthmen keep up the pace?
They kept it up. Thirkell’s stimulant pills-as well as the complex shots he had given his companions that morning-seemed to be working. Mike Soaring Eagle dug like a beaver. Sweat poured from his shining red-bronze torso. He drank prodigiously and ate salt tablets.