F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 (5 page)

           
“Where’re
you going?”

           
“Outside.
To eat.”

           
“It’s too
hot out there. We’ll sit at one of these tables.”

           
The Vanek
hesitated and glanced around. The store was empty and Jeffers had disappeared
into the back. Wordlessly, he followed Junior to a table.

           
Both were
hungry and, once seated, began to eat. After rapidly swallowing two mouthfuls,
Junior spoke around a third. “Now, what were you about to say?”

           
The Vanek
looked across the table at him and chewed thoughtfully. “You may be right. Once
we might have said that we have progressed as far as we desire. But that
doesn’t hold true any more. We Vanek have shown ourselves quite willing to
accept and utilize the benefits of a civilization technologically far superior
to our own. So perhaps it has not been by desire that our culture has been
stagnated. Still, there is more to culture than technology. There is–”

           
“Hey!” came
a shout from the rear of the store. “What’s he doing over there?”

           
Junior
looked past the Vanek and saw Jeffers standing behind the counter, glaring in
his direction.

           
Without
looking around, the Vanek picked up his slab and walked out the door. Junior
watched in stunned silence.

           
“What was
that all about?” he asked. “I was talking to him!”

           
“We don’t
allow any Vaneks to eat in here,” Jeffers told him in a more subdued tone.

           
“Why the
hell not?”

           
“Because we
don’t, that’s why!”

           
Junior
could feel himself getting angry. He put a lid on it but it wasn’t easy. “That’s
a damn humiliating thing to do to somebody, you know.”

           
“Maybe so.
But we still don’t allow any Vaneks to eat in this store.”

           
“And just
who are the ‘we’ you’re referring to?”

           
“Me!” said
Jeffers as he came around from behind the counter and approached Junior’s
table. He moved with surprising grace for a man of his size. “It’s my place and
I’ve got a right to call the shots in my own place!”

           
“Nobody’s
saying you don’t, only you could show a little respect for his dignity. Just a
little.”

           
“He’s a
half-breed!”

           
“Then how
about half the respect you ’d accord a Terran? How’s that sound?”

           
Jeffers’s
eyes narrowed. “Are you one of those meddlers from the capital?”

           
“No,”
Junior said, dropping his fork into his mashed potatoes and lifting his slab.
“I only arrived on the planet a few weeks ago.”

           
“Then
you’re not even from Jebinose!” Jeffers laughed. “You’re a foreigner!”

           
“Aren’t we
all,” Junior said over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

           
The Vanek
was seated on the boardwalk outside the store, calmly finishing his meal.
Junior sat down beside him and put his own slab aside. He was choked with what
he recognized as self-righteous anger and couldn’t eat. It was a strange
sensation, rage. He had never experienced it before. He’d had his angry moments
in the past, of course, but he’d never run across anything like this in the
three odd decades of his tranquil and relatively sheltered life. This was pure,
self-righteous, frustrated rage. And he knew it could be dangerous. He breathed
deeply and tried to cool himself back to rationality.

           
“Is it
always that way?” he asked finally.

           
The Vanek
nodded. “Yes, but it is his store.”

           
“I know
it’s his store,” Junior said, “and I certainly appreciate his right to run it
as he wishes – more than you know – but what he did to you is wrong.”

           
“It is the
prevailing attitude.”

           
“It’s a
humiliating attitude, a total lack of respect for whatever personal dignity you
might possess.”

           
There was
that word again: respect. Heber had said that the local Terrans had none of it
for the Vanek. And maybe they had no reason to respect these introspective,
timid creatures, but…

           
Thought
patterns developed after years at IBA whirled, then clicked into place, and
Junior suddenly realized that of all the Terrans in Danzer, Bill Jeffers owed
the Vanek the most consideration.

           
“But we’re
going to change that attitude, at least in one mind.”

           
The Vanek
threw him a questioning glance – the similarity in facial expressions between
the two races struck Junior at that moment. Either they had always responded
alike or the Vanek had learned to mimic the Terrans. Interesting… but he let
the thought go. He had other things on his mind.

           
“You’re
going to take me to your tribe or camp or whatever it is,” Junior said, “and
we’re going to figure out a way to put some pressure on Mr. Jeffers.”

           
The
pressure of which he was speaking was the economic kind, of course. Economic
pressure was a household word as far as the Finch family was concerned.

           
The Vanek
sighed. “Whatever your plan is, it won’t work. The elders will never agree to
do anything that might influence the course of the Great Wheel. They’ll reject
whatever you suggest without even hearing you out.”

           
“I have a
feeling they’ll agree. Besides, I have no intention of asking them to do
anything; I’m going to ask them not to do something.”

           
The Vanek
gave him another puzzled look, then shrugged. “Follow me, then. I’ll take you
to the elders. But you have been warned: it’s futile.”

           
Junior
didn’t think so. He had found something unexpected in the attitude of the young
Vanek – whose name, he learned as they walked, was pronounced something like
Rmrl. He’d read it in the flick of his gaze, the twist of his mouth, and
realized that for all his detached air, for all his outward indifference, this
particular Vanek was keenly aware of the discrimination he faced daily in the
Terran town. Junior had seen through the carefully woven façade and knew that
something could be done, must be done, and that he could do it.

           
Dark brown
skin and eyes against a casual white jump and short white hair: Old Pete was a
gaunt study in contrasts, moving with such ease and familiarity through the
upper-level corridors of IBA that the receptionist in the hall hesitated to
accost him. But when he passed her desk on his way to the inner executive
offices, she felt compelled to speak.

           
May I help
you, sir?”

           
“Yes.” He
turned toward her and smiled. “Is The Lady in at the moment?”

           
She
answered his question with another. “Do you have an appointment?” Her desktop
was lit with the electronic equivalent of a daybook and an ornate marker was
poised to check off his name.

           
“No, I’m
afraid not. You see–”

           
“I’m very
sorry.” The finality in her tone was underscored by the abrupt dimming of her
desktop. “Miss Finch can see no one without an appointment.” The daybook
read-out was her ultimate weapon aid she was skilled at using it to control the
flow of traffic in and out of the executive suites.

           
The old man
rested a gnarled hand on the desktop and leaned toward her. “Listen, dearie,”
he said in a low but forceful tone, “you just tell her Old Pete is here. We’ll
worry about appointments later.”

           
The
receptionist hesitated. The name “Old Pete” sounded vaguely familiar. She tapped
her marker once, twice, then shrugged and touched a stud on the desktop.

           
A feminine
voice said, “Yes, Marge,” from out of the air.

           
“Someone
named Old Pete demands to see you, Miss Finch.”

           
“Is this
some sort of joke?”

           
“I really
couldn’t say.”

           
“Send him
in.”

           
She rose to
show him the way but the old man waved her back to her seat and strode toward
an ornate door made of solid Maratek firewood that rippled with shifting waves
of color. The name Josephine Finch was carved in the wood at eye level, its
color shifts out of sync with the rest of the door.

           
Old Pete?
thought the woman within. What was he doing at IBA? He was supposed to be in
the
Kel
Sea
,
out of her sight and out of her mind. She dropped a spool of memos onto the
cluttered desk before her. After taking an all-too-rare long weekend, work had
accumulated to the point where she’d have to go non-stop for two days to make
up for the extra day off. Project reports, financial reports, feasibility
studies, new proposals – a half-meter stack had awaited her return. The
interstellar business community, at least that portion of it connected with
IBA, had apparently waited until she’d left the office three days ago before
unloading all its backed-up paperwork.

           
At times
like this she idly wished she had an accelerated clone to share the work load.
But as it stood now with the Clone Laws, she’d go to jail and the clone would
be destroyed if anyone ever caught on.

           
A clone
would be especially nice right now, just to deal with Old Pete. But he was here
and there was no avoiding a meeting with him. It wasn’t going to be pleasant,
but she’d have to do it herself.

           
The door
opened without a knock and there he stood. He’d changed. His skin was darker
and his hair was whiter than she’d ever seen it. Over all, his appearance was
more wizened, but the changes went deeper than that. Jo had always thought of
Old Pete as the perfect example of a high-pressure executive – his movements
had always been abrupt, rapid, decisive, his speech terse and interruptive. He
appeared much more at ease now. There was a new flow to his movements and
speech.

           
He had
changed, but the feelings he engendered in her had not. The old distrust and
hostility rekindled within her at the sight of him.

           
For a
heartbeat or two after coming through the door, the old man stood with his eyes
fixed on her, his mouth half open, frozen in the instant before speech.
Abruptly, he appeared to reassert control over himself and arranged his
features into familiar lines.

           
“Hello,
Jo,” he said softly, closing the door behind him. “You’re looking well.”

           
And she
was. A few pounds in the right places had matured her figure since the last
time the two of them had faced each other. She was wearing a clingsuit – blue,
to match her eyes – and she wore it well; in the past she had been too thin by
most outworld standards, but the extra weight on her light frame brought her
close to optimum. Her dark hair, its normal sandy color permanently altered
years before to a shade closely matching her late grandfather’s, was parted in
the middle, curving downward into a gentle frame for her oval face, and then
cut off sharply below the ears. Between the straight line of her nose and a
softly rounded chin, her lips would have appeared fuller had they not now been
compressed by irritation.

           
“You’re not
looking so bad yourself,” she replied stiffly. “
Island
life seems to be agreeing with you. How’ve you been?” She really didn’t care.

           
“Can’t
complain.”

           
The
amenities went on for a few more minutes with Jo doing her best to be as pleasant
as possible. Old Pete’s return irritated her. IBA was running smoothly now, and
all because of her. What did he want here anyway? She resented anyone from the
old days intruding on IBA. It was her company now – the Finch flair had been
restored and IBA was reasserting its claim to pre-eminence in its field.

           
Old Pete.
Of all the people from the past, he was the last she wished to see at her door.
And he must know that. She’d made no secret of it when he was forcefully
retired; and even now, years later, she could feel the hostility radiating from
her despite her calm and cordial demeanor.

           
Old Pete
was glancing around the room. A figure standing in a far corner caught his eye
and he whirled. “Joe! Good–” Then he realized he was looking at a hologram. “That’s
one of the most lifelike holos I’ve ever seen,” he said with obvious relief as
he moved around to view it from different angles. “For a moment I actually
thought–”

           
“The
founder’s portrait has to go somewhere,” Jo said.

           
“Co-founder,
you mean.”

           
Jo hesitated,
then backed down. He was right and it would serve no purpose to get petty with
him.

           
“The late
co-founder,” she finally replied, then made an attempt to bring the
conversation toward the bottom line. “What brings you back?”

           
Frowning,
he eased himself into a chair across from Jo’s desk and stared at her. “I don’t
know how to put this, exactly. In a way, I’m here to ask IBA to help me, the
Federation, and IBA.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Sounds kind of
convoluted, doesn’t it?”

           
“Sounds
like you’re hedging,” Jo replied without returning the smile.

           
Old Pete’s
laugh was genuine. “Just like your grandfather! Okay, I am hedging, but only
because I’ve got to somehow convey to you a convincing version of a vague
concept formed from speculation based on incomplete and/or secondhand
information.”

           
“What is
it, then?” she snapped, then reminded herself to show restraint and have
patience. He was, after all, an old man.

           
“I’ve
uncovered a plot against the Federation charter.”

           
Jo let the
statement hang in the air, waiting for more. But her visitor out waited her.

           
Finally,
“What’s that got to do with IBA?” she asked grudgingly.

           
“Everything.
The charter severely limits the activities of the Federation; it restricts it
from meddling in planetary affairs and from interfering in interplanetary
trade. For the past couple of centuries it has bound the planets tightly
together while managing to stymie the bureaucrats at every turn. But there’s a
delicate balance there, easily upset. If the charter should be changed or,
worse yet, thrown out somehow, the politicos at Fed Central who are so inclined
will have free rein to indulge their whims.”

           
Jo
shrugged. “So what? That doesn’t affect IBA. We have absolutely no connection
with anyone in the Federation. We don’t even have a connection in the Ragna
Cooperative. So how can any political machinations be of any consequence to
us?”

           
“If the
charter goes, so does the free market,” he told her.

           
A
drawn-out, very dubious, “Ohhhh?” was her only reply.

           
Old Pete
grunted. “Jo, what do you know about the Restructurist movement?”

           
“It’s a
political group that wants to make some changes in the Federation,” she
replied. “DeBloise is their current leader, I believe. Beyond that, I don’t
know much about them. Nor do I care much about them or any other political
group.”

           
“You’d
better start learning. To say they want to ‘make some changes in the
Federation’ is to put it lightly… turn it inside out is more like it! The Fed
was designed to keep the lid on interplanetary affairs: mediate some disputes,
promote a little harmony while simultaneously maintaining a low level of
constructive discord, and quashing the violent plans of some of the more
acquisitive planetary regimes. But that’s not enough for the Restructurists.

           
True to
their name, they want to restructure the entire organization… turn it into some
sort of social and economic equalizer that’ll regulate trade in free space and
even get involved in the internal affairs of some of the planets.”

           
Jo remained
unconcerned. “They’ll never get anywhere. From what I understand, the Fed
charter is defensively worded in such a way as to make it impossible for anyone
to get around it.”

           
“You
forget: there’s an emergency clause that allows for a temporary increase in the
scope of Federation activity should it or its planets be threatened. Peter
LaNague, who designed the charter, disowned it after that clause was attached
over his protests.”

           
“I’m aware
of all that,” Jo said with forced patience. The conversation seemed to have
veered off its original course… or had it? In spite of the pile of work spread
out before her, she felt compelled to follow Old Pete’s train of thought
through to its finish. “And it seems every time I catch a vidcast, there’s a
news item about another attempt to invoke the security clause in the Fed
charter. And every time it’s voted down. Even if they do succeed in invoking
it, so what? It’s only temporary.”

           
“That’s
where you’re wrong, Jo. If you look at the history of old Earth, you’ll find
that very seldom, if ever, is any increase in governmental power temporary. The
emergency clause is probably the key to Restructurist control: once they invoke
it they’ll have their foot in the door and the Federation will never be the
same again. I don’t want to see that happen, Jo. Your grandfather and I were
able to make IBA a going concern because of the Fed’s hands-off policy toward
any voluntary transactions. It’s my personal belief that we Terrans have come
as far as we have in the last couple of centuries because of that policy. I
don’t want to see it changed. I don’t want to see the Federation regress toward
empire – it arose from the ashes of another empire – but I see it looming in
the future if the Restructurists have their way.”

           
“But they
won’t,” Jo stated.

           
“I wouldn’t
be too sure of that. Many of those Restructurists may seem like starry-eyed
idealists, but a good number are crafty plotters with power as their goal. And
Elson deBloise is the worst of the hunch. He’s an ambitious man – a mere planetary
delegate ten years ago, he’s now a sector representative – and this plot,
whatever it is, centers around him and his circle. I’ve made a connection
between deBloise and an as yet unnamed man on Dil. The man is some sort of
physicist, probably, and if deBloise thinks he can be of use, then both he and
the Federation had better be on guard!”

           
Jo was
struck by the old man’s vehemence. “Why not go directly to the Federation if
you think something dirty is up?”

           
“Because I
don’t have a shred of tangible evidence. I would look like a nut and deBloise
would have plenty of time to cover his tracks. Frankly, I’d rather not even
involve the Fed. It’s not set up to deal with deBloise’s type. I’d much prefer
to handle everything behind the scenes and avoid any open involvement with the
politicos. To do that I need IBA’s contacts.”

           
“It’s
always been a company policy to stay out of politics,” Jo said after a moment
of silence. “It’s one of our by-laws, as a matter of fact.”

           
Old Pete’s
face creased into a smile. “I know. I wrote it.”