F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 (3 page)

           
The company
continued to expand, and after two standard decades it held advisory accounts
with a large number of the mainstay firms in interstellar trade, many of which
would not make a move into a new market without first checking with Joe and
Pete. But the accounts the partners liked most were the small, marginal ones
that involved innovative products and processes, the speculation jobs that
taxed their ingenuity to the limit. The big, prestigious accounts kept them
solvent, the speculative ones kept them interested. They charged a flat fee for
service to the former and arranged a percentage of the adjusted gross over a
variable period of time for the latter.

           
Time
passed.

           
They grew
rich. And as news of the Earthside exploits that drove Joe from the mother
planet filtered through to the outworlds, he became a celebrity of sorts on
Ragna. A psychological malady known as “the horrors” was sweeping across the
planets and a few IBA staff members were struck down. Pete’s childless marriage
broke up. A man calling himself The Healer appeared out of Tolive saying he
could cure the horrors, and apparently he could. IBA contracted the construction
of its own office building and began renting space to other businesses.

           
They had
bizarre experiences, like the time Joe and Pete were almost swindled out of a
fortune by an accelerated clone of Occupied Space’s most famous financier. The
clone had to be destroyed, of course – the Clone Laws on almost all planets
dictated that – which was a shame because they had found him charming.

           
They had
near tragedy when Joe, Jr., was almost killed by a radiation leak at a
construction site shortly after he joined the firm. He was only eighteen at the
time and managed to pull through.

           
And they
had joy with the arrival of Josephine Finch, augmenting Junior and his wife
after five years of marriage – a little late by outworld standards, but worth
the wait to all concerned.

           
Then
tragedy struck full force. Joe’s flitter had a power failure while he, his
wife, and daughter-in-law were two kilometers in the air.

           
Things were
thrown into disarray for a while. Joe had been talking of retiring in the next
few months when his seventy-fifth year coincided with IBA’s thirty-fifth, but
no one had taken that too seriously. Everyone fully expected to see him in his
office every morning long after he had officially retired. Now he was gone and
IBA would never be the same.

           
Everyone,
including Pete, looked to Joe’s son to fill the void, but Junior balked. For
reasons apparent only to himself, he left Ragna with no particular destination
in mind and was never seen or heard from again until his body was found a year
later in an alley in a backwater town on Jebinose with a Vanek ceremonial knife
in his heart.

           
Junior had
placed control of his stock with Pete and his death left Pete in complete
control of IBA. But Old Pete – it was at about that time that the “Old” became
an integral part of his name – wanted no part of it. He appointed a board of
directors with himself as chairman and made it a point not to attend any of the
meetings. This went on for a number of years. The directors adapted to the
company and kept it going at an adequate pace, although not with the spirit and
verve of the original, and became entrenched in the process. Old Pete never
noticed.

           
He had
taken up a new hobby – politico-watching, he called it – which occupied most of
his time. His purposes were his own, his methods were the best money could buy.
The hobby seemed to satisfy the sense of political mischief he had inherited
from Joe.

           
The status
quo might have remained undisturbed indefinitely had not an attractive and
rather hostile nineteen-year-old girl walked into his office one day and
demanded control of her father’s stock in IBA. Josephine Finch had come of age.

           
Old Pete
gave her the stock without hesitation. As Junior’s only descendant, she had a
right to it. She went on to request temporary proxy power of his stock and, for
his own reasons, he gave it to her.

           
And that’s
when Josephine Finch began to turn IBA upside down. The outcome was a flurry of
resignations from the board of directors and the forced retirement of Old Pete
himself.

           
Retirement
afforded him more time to devote to his politico-watching and now he had
stumbled onto something that threatened all of interstellar trade. He didn’t
know just what was being planned, but if the Restructurists were talking in
units of a half-million Fed credits, it was big… very big. And if it was good
for the Restructurists, it was bad for him – bad for IBA, bad for the companies
he had counseled over the years, bad for all the freedoms that had made his
life so worthwhile.

           
Tella was
right. This was too big for him. He was going to need help and the only place
he could go was IBA. He didn’t relish the thought. There remained quite a
residue of ill feeling between Jo and him, all of it on her side. He had been
surprised and hurt by the forced retirement, especially after letting her use
his stock against the board of directors, but he had not fought it. He had been
seriously considering dropping his nominally active role in the company for
some time but had never got around to doing anything about it. The forced
retirement made up his mind for him and he left quietly for the
Kel
Sea
island he had purchased shortly
after Junior’s death.

           
No, he bore
no ill feelings – the girl reminded him too much of Junior for that – but he
wished he could say the same for Jo. He couldn’t understand her. There had been
an undercurrent of hostility in all her relations with him, and for no apparent
reason.

           
Old Pete
sighed and rose to his knees, then to his feet. He hated to leave the island.
Even more, he hated the thought of facing that fiery little girl again. Because
seeing her always brought back memories of Joe, Jr.

           
And
remembering Junior always made Old Pete a little sad.

           
THE TWO MEN
GAZED at the bustle of the spaceport below them.

           
“But where
are you going?” the older one asked. He appeared genuinely concerned.

           
Joe Finch,
Jr., shrugged. “Really haven’t decided yet. Probably into the outer sectors.”

           
“But the
company–”

           
“It’s only
for a year, Pete, and I’m sure IBA won’t miss me. If anyone can take care of
things, it’s you. I haven’t contributed much since Dad’s death anyway.”

           
“But you
just can’t drop everything and take off like this,” Paxton protested. “What
about Josephine?”

           
Junior put
his hand on Paxton’s shoulder. They were close – Junior had called him “Uncle
Pete” as a kid – and Paxton now and then tended to take on a fatherly attitude,
especially since the death of Joe, Sr.

           
“Look. Jo’s
ten now. I’ve tried to be a mother and a father to her for the three years
since the accident. She’s perhaps overly attached to me at this point, but
she’ll survive a year without me. I’m thirty-three and I’ve got to get away for
a while or I won’t be much of anything to anybody. Especially to me.”

           
“I know
what’s going on inside that head of yours,” Paxton said gravely, “so don’t take
this wrong… but can’t you climb a mountain or something?”

           
Junior
laughed. “I’ve no desire to be a mountain hanger. I… I just don’t feel part of
IBA, that’s all. It’s not my company. It’s yours and Dad’s. I had nothing to do
with its founding or growth. It’s just being handed to me.”

           
“But the
company has a lot of growing to do. You could be a big part of that. In fact,
IBA’s future will ultimately depend on you, you know. If you run out on it now,
there’s no telling what–”

           
“IBA’s present
momentum,” Junior interjected, “will easily carry it another decade with little
help from anyone. I’ve got no qualms about taking out a year to go somewhere.”

           
“And do
what?”

           
“I dunno…
something.” He extended his hand. “Good-by, Pete. I’ll contact you when I get
where I’m going.”

           
Peter
Paxton watched the slouching figure amble off in the direction of one of the
shuttle ramps, a man in the shadow of his father, the only son of Joe Finch
trying to prove to himself that he was worthy of the title. It was distressing
to see him wander off like this, but Paxton had to admire him for having the
guts to do it. After all, it was only for a year. Maybe he could find himself
in that time, or do something to put him at ease with himself. He wouldn’t be
much use around the company in his present state anyway.

           
So both men
parted convinced that it was for the best and only for a year; neither realized
that one would be dead before that year was up.

           
JUNIOR
DIDN’T KNOW exactly why he picked Jebinose. Maybe he had heard about its minor
racial problem once and the memory had lingered in his subconscious, waiting
for the opportune moment to push him in the planet’s direction. Maybe he was
drawn to situations in flux. Jebinose was in minor flux.

           
The
planet’s background was a blot on the early history of man’s interstellar
colonization. In the old days of the splinter colonies, exploration teams were
sent out in all directions to find Earth-class planets. At that time the Earth
government was offering a free ride to a suitable planet to any dissident group
that desired an opportunity to realize its own idea of a perfect society. The
policy served many purposes: it disseminated Terrans in a rough globe of space
with Earth holding a vague central position; it allowed humanity to start
dehomogenizing itself by cutting divergent parts off from the whole and letting
them develop on their own; it took enormous pressure off the Earth bureaucracy
– the real reason for the plan’s inception – by forming an exit route for the
malcontents and freethinkers on the planet.

           
A lot of
planets were needed and this put considerable pressure on the exploration
teams. Sometimes they became careless. A major criterion for colonizable
classification was the absence of an “intelligent” native species. No one was
quite sure of just exactly what was meant by “intelligent,” but tool-making was
the accepted rule of thumb for dividing the thinkers from the non-thinkers.
There were countless long, ponderous discussions on the wisdom of using a
single criterion to determine a race’s position on the intellectual scale but
those discussions took place on Earth. The actual decisions were left up to the
explorer crews; and as far as they were concerned, tool-making was it.

           
The Jebinose
blunder, however, had nothing to do with interpretation of the rules. The
planet was given an “M” classification (Earth-type, suitable for settling)
after the most cursory of examinations. The colonists were indeed surprised
when they discovered that they were sharing the planet with a tribe of
primitive humanoids.

           
No one
knows too much about the early colonial history of Jebinose. The splinter group
that landed there was composed of third-rate syndicalists and was conspicuous
only by reason of its particular ineptitude at the task of colonization. But
for the Vanek, not a single member would have survived the first winter.

           
The Vanek
are an alien enigma. They are quiet, humble, peaceful, fatalistic. Few in
number, they are intensely devoted to a rather vague religion which bids them
to welcome all newcomers to the fold. Their civilization had reached an
agrarian plateau and they were quite willing to let it remain there.

           
Humanoid
with blue-gray skin and long, spindly arms, they found it easy to befriend the
colonists. It was not long before the Vanek had completely swallowed them up.

           
The
cross-breeding phenomenon between human and Vanek has yet to be explained.
There are many theories but no single one has received general acceptance. No
matter… it worked. The Jebinose colony, as in the case of many other splinter
colonies, was forgotten until the new Federation tried to order the chaos of
the omnidirectional human migration. By the time it was rediscovered, human and
Vanek genes had been pooled into a homogeneous mixture.

           
Much heated
debate ensued. Some argued that since the original colony had been completely
absorbed, resettlement would, in effect, be interference with an alien culture.
Others argued that the Vanek were now part human and thus had a right to Terran
technology… and besides, Jebinose was favorably situated in regard to an
emerging trade route that had great potential.

           
Jebinose
was resettled. The emerging trade route, however, failed to live up to its
potential. The planet had an initial spurt of growth in its population as
spaceports were constructed and cities grew up around them. Then the population
stabilized into a slower, steadier growth pattern and some of the hardier
citizens moved to the hinterlands where the Vanek lived and technology was at a
low level. Jebinose was typical of many middle level planets: modern cities and
relatively primitive outlands; not a backwater planet, but hardly in the thick
of interplanetary affairs.

           
The Vanek
tribes were scattered over the planet, mostly in the agricultural areas. It was
through one of these that Junior wandered. He was tall and wiry with a good
amount of muscle on a light frame. The unruly sandy hair that covered the tops
of his ears and curled at his neck was his mother’s; the long straight nose,
blue eyes and sure movements were his father’s. His face was fair, open,
likable, ready to accept the universe on its own terms until he found good
reason to change it. Although there was no physical abnormality, his shoulders
were perpetually hunched; he’d been told all his life to straighten his back
but he never did.

           
His
wandering eventually brought him to the town of
Danzer
.
It was a tiny place, the town center consisting of eight wooden buildings, a
general store/restaurant among them. A few rugged-looking ground cars rolled up
and down the dirt street that ran through the middle of town. On each side of
the street ran a raised wooden boardwalk. Junior found a shady spot on the
south side, unslung his backpack, and sat down.

           
He had been
walking for days and was bone weary. A cool breeze helped evaporate the sweat
beading his face as he put his head back against a post and closed his eyes.
And to think he had considered himself in good physical condition. That was
rough terrain out there. Those gentle rolling hills that looked so beautiful
from a distance were sheer torture on the upside, especially with an extra
tenth of a G to work against. He could have rented a flitter or a ground car;
could have bought one outright. But he hadn’t wanted to do it that way. Now he
wondered if that had been such a wise idea.

           
He reopened
his eyes as the last drop of sweat dried and noticed a middle-aged man staring
at him from across the street. The man continued to stare for a short while
longer, then he stepped off the boardwalk and crossed over to Junior for a
closer look.

           
“You’re new
around here, aren’t you?” he said in provincial tones and stuck out his right
hand. “I’m Marvin Heber and I like to know everyone in Danzer.”

           
Junior
shook that proffered hand – it was lightly callused; not a field worker’s hand.
“My name’s Junior Finch and, yes, I’m new around here. Very new.”

           
Heber sat
down beside him and tipped back the brim of the cap he was wearing. His face
was a weathered ruddy brown up to the hatband line about two centimeters above
his eyebrows. At that point the skin abruptly turned white. He was gaunt and
about average height. Some of his teeth were missing – a sight Junior was not
at all used to – and it appeared he had neglected to apply a depilatory cream
that morning. Hardly an arresting figure, this Marvin Heber, but something in
the quick, searching eyes told Junior that this man was quite a bit more than
he seemed.

           
“Just
moving in, huh?”

           
“No. Moving
through, actually. I’ve been wandering around the region just to see what I can
see.”

           
“See
anything interesting?”

           
The man was
nosy and did not make the slightest attempt to hide it. Junior decided to be as
oblique as possible.

           
“
Lot
of virgin land left around here,” he replied.

           
Heber
nodded and eyed the newcomer. “If you want to settle, I’m sure we can help you
find a place.”

           
“Who’s we?”

           
“Me,
really. I was using the plural in the editorial sense.”

           
Now Junior
was certain this man was more than he seemed. He fumbled for something to say
next and was getting nowhere when the approach of an odd-looking figure changed
the course of the conversation. An elderly, spindle-armed beggar in a dusty
robe came up to him and asked for alms. His skin was bluish gray and his black
hair was pulled back from a high forehead and wound into a single braid that
was slung in front of his left shoulder.

           
Junior
fished in a pocket, came up with a few small coins, and dropped them into the
earthen bowl extended in his direction.

           
“Wheels
within wheels, bendreth,” the beggar said in high, nasal tones, and then
continued his journey down the street.

           
“That was a
Vanek, right?” Junior asked as he watched the figure recede. “I hear they’re
common in this region but that’s the first one I’ve seen close up since I
arrived.”

           
“As a group
they keep pretty much to themselves and only come into town to buy supplies now
and then. There’s always a beggar or two about, however.”

           
Junior made
no reply, hoping his silence would draw Heber out.

           
“They spend
most of their time on their reservation–”

           
“They’re
confined to a reservation?”

           
“Confined
is hardly the word, my young friend. Before the Federation would allow
resettlement of this planet, the Vanek leaders were approached and asked if
they objected. Their reply: ‘Wheels within wheels, bendreth.’ When asked to
choose whatever areas they would like reserved – without limit, mind you – for
their exclusive use, they replied, ‘Wheels within wheels, bendreth.’ So their
nomadic patterns were observed and mapped out and everywhere they wandered was
reserved for their exclusive use.” He grunted. “Waste of good land if you ask
me.”

           
“Why do you
say that?”

           
“They don’t
wander anymore. And there aren’t all that many of them. Never was. Their total
population peaked at about a hundred thousand planet-wide fifty standard years
ago. They’ve leveled off at about ninety thousand now. Looks like they’ll stay
there, too.”