“Jorust, you’re an administrator. Are we protected by your laws?” Underhill asked.
She moved her shoulders. “Yes, you are. The laws are sacrosanct. Perhaps because they have always been designed to protect the tarkomars.”
Malsi swung towards her. “Are you siding with the Earthmen?”
“Why, of course not, Malsi. I’m merely upholding the law, according to my oath of office. Without prejudice-that’s it, isn’t it?”
Munn said, “We’ll stop making the Power Pills if you like, but I warn you that it’s only a respite. You can’t halt progress.”
Malsi seemed unconvinced. “You’ll stop?”
“Sure. If you pay us.”
“We cannot pay you,” Malsi said stubbornly. “You belong to no tarhomar. It would be illegal.”
Jorust murmured, “You might give them a free gift of-say-ten thousand sofals.”
“Ten thousand!” Malsi yelped. “Ridiculous!”
“So it is,” Underhill said. “Fifty thousand is more like it. We can live well for a year on that.”
A Venusian came to the valve, peeped in and said: “I made twice as many difals today. May I have another Power Pill?” He saw Malsi and vanished with a small shriek.
Munn shrugged. “Suit yourself. Pay up, or we go on handing out Power Pills-and you’ll have to adjust a rigid social economy. I don’t think you can do it.”
Jorust touched Malsi’s arm. “There is no other way.”
“I—” The Venusian by now was almost black with impotent rage. “All right,” he capitulated, spitting the words between his teeth. “I won’t forget this, Jorust.”
“But I must administer the laws,” the woman said. “Why, Malsi! The rule of the tarkoinars has always been unswerving honesty.”
Malsi didn’t answer. He scribbled a credit check for fifty thousand sofals, validated it and gave the tag to Munn. After that he sent a parting glare around the cabin and stamped out.
“Well!” Bronson said. “Fifty grand! Tonight we eat!”
“May you be worthy of your fathers’ names,” Jorust murmured. At the valve she turned. “I’m afraid you’ve upset Malsi.”
“Too bad,” Munn said hypocritically.
Jorust moved her shoulders slightly. “Yes. You’ve upset Malsi. And Malsi represents the tarkomars—”
“What can he do about it?” Underhill asked.
“Nothing. The laws won’t let him. But-it’s nice to know the tarkomars aren’t infallible. I think the word will get around.”
Jorust winked gravely at Munn and departed, looking as innocent as a cat, and as potentially dangerous.
“Well!” Munn said. “What does that mean? The end of the tarkomar’s rule, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Bronson said. “I don’t give a damn. I’m hungry and I want a beefsteak-mushroom. Where can we cash a check for fifty grand?”
COLD WAR
Chapter 1. Last of the Pughs
I’ll never have a cold in the head again without I think of little Junior Pugh. Now there was a repulsive brat if ever I saw one. Built like a little gorilla, he was. Fat, pasty face, mean look, eyes so close together you could poke ’em both out at once with one finger. His paw thought the world of him though. Maybe that was natural, seeing as how little Junior was the image of his pappy.
“The last of the Pughs,” the old man used to say stickin’ his chest out and beamin’ down at the little gorilla. “Finest little lad that ever stepped.”
It made my blood run cold sometimes to look at the two of ’em together. Kinda sad, now, to think back to those happy days when I didn’t know either of ’em. You may not believe it but them two Pughs, father and son, between ’em came within that much of conquerin’ the world.
Us Hogbens is quiet folks. We like to keep our heads down and lead quiet lives in our own little valley, where nobody comes near withouten we say so. Our neighbors and the folks in the village are used to us by now. They know we try hard not to act conspicuous. They make allowances.
If Paw gets drunk, like last week, and flies down the middle of Main Street in his red underwear most people make out they don’t notice, so’s not to embarrass Maw. They know he’d walk like a decent Christian if he was sober.
The thing that drove Paw to drink that time was Little Sam, which is our baby we keep in a tank down-cellar, startin’ to teethe again. First time since the War Between the States. We’d figgered he was through teething, but with Little Sam you never can tell. He was mighty restless, too.
A professor we keep in a bottle told us once Little Sam emitted subsonic somethings when he yells but that’s just his way of talking. Don’t mean a thing. It makes your nerves twiddle, that’s all. Paw can’t stand it. This time it even woke up Grandpaw in the attic and he hadn’t stirred since Christmas. First thing after he got his eyes open he bust out madder’n a wet hen at Paw.
“I see ye, wittold knave that ye are!” he howled. “Plying again, is it? Oh, sic a reowfule sigte! I’ll ground ye, ywis!” There was a faraway thump.
“You made me fall a good ten feet!” Paw hollered from away down the valley. “It ain’t fair. I could of busted something!”
“Ye’ll bust us all, with your dronken carelessness,” Grandpaw said. “Flying in full sight of the neighbors! People get burned at the stake for less. You want mankind to find out all about us? Now shut up and let me tend to Baby.”
Grandpaw can always quiet the baby if nobody else can. This time he sung him a little song in Sanskrit and after a bit they was snoring a duet.
I was fixing up a dingus for Maw to sour up some cream for sour-cream biscuits. I didn’t have much to work with but an old sled and some pieces of wire but I didn’t need much. I was trying to point the top end of the wire north-northeast when I seen a pair of checked pants rush by in the woods.
It was Uncle Lem. I could hear him thinking. “It ain’t me!” he was saying, real loud, inside his haid.
“Git back to yer work, Saunk. I ain’t within a mile of you. Yer Uncle Lem’s a fine old feller and never tells lies. Think I’d fool ye, Saunkie boy?”
“You shore would,” I thunk back. “If you could. What’s up, Uncle Lem?”
At that he slowed down and started to saunter back in a wide circle.
“Oh, I just had an idy yer Maw might like a mess of blackberries,” he thunk, kicking a pebble very nonchalant. “If anybody asks you say you ain’t seen me. It’s no lie. You ain’t.”
“Uncle Lem,” I thunk, real loud, “I gave Maw my bounden word I wouldn’t let you out of range without me along, account of the last time you got away—”
“Now, now, my boy,” Uncle Lem thunk fast. “Let bygones be bygones.”
“You just can’t say no to a friend, Uncle Lem,” I reminded him, taking a last turn of the wire around the runner. “So you wait a shake till I get this cream soured and we’ll both go together, wherever it is you have in mind.”
I saw the checked pants among the bushes and he come out in the open and give me a guilty smile.
Uncle Lem’s a fat little feller. He means well, I guess, but he can be talked into most anything by most anybody, which is why we have to keep a close eye on him.
“How you gonna do it?” he asked me, looking at the creamjug. “Make the little critters work faster?”
“Uncle Lem!” I said. “You know better’n that. Cruelty to dumb animals is something I can’t abide.
Them there little critters work hard enough souring milk the way it is. They’re such teentsy-weentsy fellers I kinda feel sorry for ’em. Why, you can’t even see ’em without you go kinda crosseyed when you look. Paw says they’re enzymes. But they can’t be. They’re too teeny.”