Munn kept sewing, without missing a stitch. He knew that his products were being scanned closely for signs of sloppy workmanship. Bronson kept juggling and doing coin tricks, never missing.
Underhill typed with aching fingers.
Five hours. Six hours. Even with the rest periods, it was gruelling. They had brought food from the Goodwill, but it wasn’t too palatable. Still, Thirkell had selected it carefully for caloric.
Seven hours. Eight hours. The crowds made the canals impassable. A policeman came along and argued with Thirkell, who told him to see Jorust. Jorust must have put a flea in his ear, for he came back to watch, but not to interfere.
Nine hours. Ten hours. Ten hours of Herculean effort. The men were exhausted-but they kept going.
They had made their point by then, though, for a few Venusians approached Thirkell and inquired about the Power Pills. What were they? Did they really make you work faster? How could they buy the-The policeman appeared to stand beside Thirkell. “I’ve a message from the medical tarkomar,” he announced. “If you try to sell any of those things, you go to jail.”
“Wouldn’t think-of it,” Thirkell said. “We’re giving away free samples. Here, buddy.” He dug into a sack and tossed the nearest Venusian a Power Pill. “Two days’ work in that instead of your usual one.
Come back for more tomorrow. Want one, pal? Here. You, too. Catch.”
“Wait a minute—” the policeman said.
“Go get a warrant,” Thirkell told him. “There’s no law against making presents.”
Jorust appeared with a burly, intolerant-looking Venusian. She introduced the latter as head of the Vyring tarkomars.
“And I’m here to tell you to stop this,” the Venusian said.
Thirkell knew what to say. His companions kept on with their work, but he felt them watching and listening.
“What rule do you invoke?”
“Why… why, peddling.”
“I’m not selling anything. This is public domain; we’re putting on a free show.”
“Those… ah… Power Pills—”
“Free gifts,” Thirkell said. “Listen, pal. When we gave all our food to you Venusian crooks, did you squawk? No, you took it. And then clamped down. When we asked for our grub back, you just told us that we had no legal recourse; possession is nine points of the law, and we had a perfect right to make free gifts. That’s what we’re doing now -giving presents. So what?”
Jorust’s eyes were twinkling, but she hooded them swiftly. “I fear he speaks the truth. The law protects him. It is no great harm.”
Thirkell, watching her, wondered. Had Jorust guessed the right answer? Was she on their side? The tarkoinar leader turned dark green, hesitated, swung on his heel and went away. Jorust gave the Earthmen a long, enigmatic look, moved her shoulders and followed.
“I’m still stiff,” Mike Soaring Eagle said a week later in the Goodwill. “Hungry, too. When do we get grub?”
Thirkell, at the valve, handed out a Power Pill to a Venusian and came back rubbing his hands and grinning. “Wait. Just wait. What’s going on, skipper?”
Munn nodded towards Underhill. “Ask the kid. He got back from Vyring a few minutes ago.”
Underhill chuckled. “There was hell popping. All in a week, too. We’ve certainly struck at the economic base. Every Venusian who labors on a piecework basis wants our pills, so he can speed up his production and make more fals. It’s the competitive instinct-which is universal.” -
“Well?” Bronson asked. “How do the lizard-faced big shots like that?”
“They don’t like it. It’s hit the economic set-up they’ve had for centuries. Till now, one Venusian would make exactly ten sofals a week-say-by turning out five thousand bottle caps. With the pills Steve made up, he’s turning out eight or ten thousand and making correspondingly more dough. The guy at the next bench says what the hell, and comes to us for a Power Pill for himself. Thus it goes.
And the lovely part is that not all the labor is on piecework basis. It can’t be. You need tangibles for piecework. Running a weather machine has got to be measured by time-not by how many raindrops you make in a day.”
Munn nodded. “Jealousy, you mean?”
Underhill said, “Well, look. A weather-machine operator has been making ten sofals a week, the same as a bottle capper on piecework. Now the bottle capper’s making twenty sofals. The weather-machine man doesn’t see the point. He’s willing to take Power Pills, too, but that won’t step up his production. He asks for a raise. If he gets it, the economy is upset even more. If he doesn’t, other weather-machine operators get together with him and figure it’s unfair discrimination. They get mad at the tarkoinars. They strike!”
Mike Soaring Eagle said, “The tarkomars have forbidden work to any Venusian taking Power Pills.”
“And still the Venusians ask us for Power Pills. So what? How can you prove a man’s been swallowing them? His production steps up, sure, but the tarkoinctrs can’t clamp down on everybody with a good turnout. They tried that, and a lot of guys who never tried the Power Pills got mad. They were fast workers, that was all.”
“The demonstration we put on was a good idea,” Thirkell said. “It was convincing. I’ve had to cut down the strength of the pills-we’re running low-but the power of suggestion helps us.”
Underhill grinned. “So the base-the man-hour unit-had gone cockeyed. One little monkey wrench, thrown where it’ll do the most good. It’s spreading, too. Not only Vyring. The news is going all over Venus, and the workers in the other cities are asking why half of Vyring’s laborers should get better pay.
That’s where the equal standard of exchange helps us-one monetary system all over Venus. Nothing has ever been off par here for centuries. Now—”
Munn said, “Now the system’s toppling. It’s a natural fault in a perfectly integrated, rigid set-up. For want of a nail the tarkomars are losing their grip. They’ve forgotten how to adjust.”
“It’ll spread,” Underhill said confidently. “It’ll spread. Steve, here comes another customer.”
Underhill was wrong. Jorust and the Vyring tarkomar leader came in. “May you be worthy of your ancestors’ names,” Munn said politely. “Drag up a chair and have a drink. We’ve still got a few bulbs of beer left.”
Jorust obeyed, but the Venusian rocked on his feet and glowered. The woman said, “Malsi is distressed. These Power Pills are causing trouble.”
“I don’t know why,” Munn said. “They increase production, don’t they?”
Malsi grimaced. “This is a trick! A stratagem! You are abusing our hospitality!”
“What hospitality?” Bronson wanted to know.
“You threatened the system,” Malsi plunged on doggedly. “On Venus there is no change. There must be none.”
“Why not?” Underhill asked. “There’s only one real reason, and you know it. Any advances might upset the tarkoinars-threaten the power they hold. You racketeers have had the whip hand for centuries.
You’ve suppressed inventions, kept Venus in a backwater, tried to drive initiative out of the race, just so you could stay on top. It can’t be done. Changes happen; they always do. If we hadn’t come, there’d have been an internal explosion eventually.”
Malsi glared at him. “You will stop making these Power Pills.”
“Point of law,” Thirkell said softly. “Show precedent.”
Jorust said, “The right of free gift is one of the oldest on Venus. That law could be changed, Malsi, but I don’t think the people would like it.”
Munn grinned. “No. They wouldn’t. That would be the tipoff. Venusians have learned it’s possible to make more money. Take that chance away from them, and the tarko mars won’t be the benevolent rulers any more.”
Malsi turned darker green. “We have power—”