“Paxton! It figures I’d find you here! Go inside. I’ve something to discuss with Mr. Finch!”
The young man was cowed by the wrathful CA. He looked to Finch and Finch nodded toward the door.
“Do as he says. He brought a couple of his bully-boys along so we’d better humor him.”
When Paxton had disappeared into the house, Finch turned to Gordon. “Now what the hell is all this about?”
“You’re under arrest, Finch!” Gordon roared.
“What for?” Andy raised his head and wondered who was making all this noise on such a pleasant afternoon.
“You know very well what for . . . for destroying a government project!”
“You mean the Rigrod experiment?”
“Yes! The Rigrod experiment! The whole structure of the Assessor-built society started to break down soon after your visit. You did something out there. I’m going to find out what it was. I don’t care how popular you are, you’re going to tell me.”
“I’ll tell you what I did,” said Finch. “I visited the place. That’s all. You were with me all the time.”
“You pulled something—” Gordon began.
“Damn right I did,” Finch interrupted with a snort. “I destroyed that project willfully and with malice aforethought. And I did you a favor by doing it. It was bound to happen sooner or later! You thought you were creating the perfect society by basing it on human individuality, by making the best use of individual abilities. You took care of individuality . . . fine! But you forgot all about individualism!
“It never occurred to you that many people wouldn’t be happy doing ‘what they can do best.’ As a matter of fact, many people don’t give a damn about what they can do best. They’re more interested in doing what they like to do, what they want to do. There might be a musician playing at the music center tonight who could be a brilliant physicist if he wanted to be, but he likes music instead. In an Assessor-built society, however, he’d be working with mathematical formulae instead of chord progressions. He’d sit around envying musicians for just so long and then he’d either rebel or go mad. When are people like you going to learn that utopia is a fool’s game?”
Gordon was in a cold rage. The project, which was to be a monument to his name, was being torn to shreds by this man in front of him. He spoke through clenched teeth: “But why didn’t they rebel before you showed up? The project was working perfectly until then.”
“You’ve had no trouble on the peninsula until now,” Finch explained, “because you’ve been working with a biased sample. Those kids have been told all their lives that they are pioneers, that they’ll be the ones to prove that man can have utopia. And so all the square pegs in the round holes—the equivalents of our hypothetical musician-physicist—keep mum on the hope that their discontent will pass . . . they don’t want to destroy ‘man’s chance at utopia’ by a hasty decision. And in keeping mum they never find out that there are others like themselves.
“Then Joe Finch comes along.
“And I’m not a hero, Gordon. I’m a crackpot, an eccentric, a nut. I’ve known about Rigrod for over a decade now and spent that time building up a reputation as a rugged individualist. Many times I felt foolish but the press and the vid played right into my hands. I’ve been a walking publicity stunt for the last ten years. That’s why my pet is an antbear instead of a dog—although I wouldn’t trade Andy for anything now. I’ve been hoping for a chance to get to Rigrod and you gave it to me. And that was all I needed.
“Allowing someone with a reputation as a crackpot individualist to wander through the Rigrod Peninsula is like introducing a seed crystal to a supersaturated solution: all the underlying threads of doubt and discontent start to crystallize. But don’t blame me! Blame yourself and your inane theories and ambitions! You were a fool to be taken in by Black’s theory, you were a fool to bring me to the project and you were a fool to think that I’d have anything at all to do with such a plan!”
Gordon finally exploded. “Arrest him!” he told the two guards who had been standing idly by.
The guards, of course, did not know anything about antbears. The antbear has been long used in the areas to which it is indigenous as a watchdog. Its forelimbs have monstrous claws which it uses for digging into termite hills but it can rear up on its hind legs and use these claws for defense. And the antbear has an uncanny ability to roar like a lion.
The two guards were quickly made aware of these facts. Andy startled them with a roar as they made their first move toward Finch. A few swipes with his claws and the guards were down and gashed and bleeding.
Andy stood beside Finch and huffed warily as his master scratched his snout. Finch turned to the livid Chief Administrator.
“Now get out of here and take your friends with you.”
“All right, Finch. You’ve won for now. But let me warn you that your life here on Earth from now on will be hell! And don’t get any ideas about getting off-planet . . . you’re staying right here!”
But Joe Finch had been far ahead of the CA. He had already sold his house, a printing firm had bought his machinery and all the properties of Finch House had been picked up by a telestories outfit. A handsome bribe had reserved two seats and one animal passage out from Earth on a moment’s notice, and Joe Finch, Peter J. Paxton and Andy were well into primary warp toward Ragna before Arthur Gordon had any idea they had left Earth.
With Finch’s money and organizational experience and Paxton’s business theories, Interstellar Business Advisers was born and grew with the expanding Federation. And Joe, at long last able to put aside his role of super-individualist, found a woman who loved him—and anteaters, too—and it wasn’t too long before Joe junior came along. But that’s another story.
RATMAN
Since its purpose was neither to load nor unload cargo, his converted tramp freighter was directed to a landing pad at the far end of the field where it wouldn’t get in the way. Orz, red-haired and of average height and build, though somewhat stoop-shouldered, didn’t mind. As long as he was in the general area his efficiency would be unimpaired.
When the viewscreen picked up an approaching ground car, Orz snapped his fingers and a half-kilo space rat leaped from the control console to his shoulder.
“Let’s go, 62,” he said to his favorite employee.
The space rat grasped the fabric of his master’s shirt tightly in his tiny paws and lashed his tail about nervously. He didn’t like meeting strangers, but it was part of his job; his master had found that there was a definite psychological advantage in appearing with a space rat on his shoulder.
Orz and 62 reached the hatch just as the ground car pulled up alongside. They scrutinized the two occupants as the freighter’s loading ramp descended.
The first to debark was a portly little man wearing a stylish orange tunic that should have been two sizes larger. His companion probably weighed as much but was taller and better proportioned.
Orz’s long legs carried him swiftly down the ramp after it had settled and the portly one came forward to meet him.
“Mr. Samuel Orzechowski?” he asked, mangling the pronunciation.
Orz smiled. “That’s right, but you can call me Sam, or Orz, or, as some people prefer, Ratman.”
And being a client, he thought, you’ll no doubt choose the last one.
“Well,” the little man replied, “I guess ‘Ratman’ will do. I’m Aaron Lesno, president of the Traders League, and this is Evan Rabb, our treasurer,” he said, indicating the man beside him. “Welcome to Neeka,” said Lesno.
“Could I ask you something, Ratman?” Rabb hastily interjected. He couldn’t take his eyes off 62.“Is that a space rat?”
Orz nodded. “A small one. A baby, really.”
“Aren’t you afraid of . . .?”
“Losing my ear?” he grinned. “Not at all. I imagine you two and the rest of the League are somewhat in the dark as to my methods, and you’ve probably got a lot of questions. I’ve fou
nd it best in the past to get everyone together and explain things to everybody at once. It saves me time and you money.”
“An excellent idea!” Lesno agreed. “We’ve all been anxiously awaiting your arrival . . .” He corrected himself with a glance at Rabb. “Well, almost all . . . but I’m sure there would be no problem in getting everyone together.”
“What did you mean by almost all’?” Orz asked.
Rabb spoke up. “One of our more influential members was vehemently opposed to the idea of retaining you.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“Have no fear, Ratman,” Lesno assured him with a smile. “He’ll let you know why at the meeting tonight.”
“Fair enough,” Orz said. “Can someone come back and pick me up in a few hours for the meeting?”
“Why not come with us now and let us show you around a bit?” Lesno offered.
Orz shook his head and gestured over his shoulder to the ship. “Sorry . . . feeding time.”
Rabb and Lesno stiffened and glanced nervously from 62 to the open hatch.
“Yes, quite,” Lesno muttered. “Very well, then, we’ll have someone call for you in, say, three hours.”
“That’ll be fine.” This settled, the two-man welcoming committee lost little time in putting some distance between themselves and the squat little freighter.
“Seem like pretty decent fellows,” Orz told 62 as he made his way up the ramp and down the central corridor. As they approached the rat room, 62 began to prance excitedly on his master’s shoulder and was literally doing a dance by the time Orz hit the door release.
His several hundred fellow employees inside took up the same excited dance at the sound of the door sliding open. The cages were arranged five high along the walls of the long, narrow room. They were simple, steel-sided boxes with front doors of quarter-inch steel mesh; each was self-cleaning, had its own water supply, and was equipped with an automatic feeder.
But Orz had never trusted automatic feeders, so now he went from cage to cage and shoved food pellets through the tiny feeding hole in the front of each. He had to be nimble, for the rats were greedy and anxious and a fingertip could easily be mistaken for a pellet. His practiced eye decided how much each rat should get. This was important: A rat became fat and lazy if overfed and would gnaw his way out of the cage if underfed. A rat in either condition was of little use to Ratman.
Fifty cages stood open and empty and Orz placed a few pellets in each. 62 was frantic by now so he decided to give the little fellow something before he jumped off his shoulder and into one of the empty cages. The rat rose up on his hind legs, snatched the pellet from Orz’s proffering fingers with his tiny, handlike paws, and began to gnaw noisily and voraciously.
Three hours later, Orz flipped a particular switch on the console, checked to make sure the door to the rat room was open, then headed for the hatch. There, after casting an eye through the dusk at the approaching ground car, he secured the hatch, but opened a small panel at its bottom. With 62 perched watchfully upon his shoulder, he was waiting at the bottom of the ramp when the car arrived.
Lesno was alone inside. “Well, Ratman,” he said with a smile, “everybody’s waiting, so”—then he spotted 62 and his face fell. “Does he have to come along? I mean, he won’t get too excited, will he?”
“Don’t worry,” Orz replied, sliding into his seat, “he won’t bite you.”
To lessen the man’s anxiety he made a point of keeping 62 on his far shoulder.
“Your advertising literature was quite timely,” Lesno remarked as they got under way, hoping conversation would take his mind off those two beady eyes peering at him around the back of his passenger’s head. “The rat problem was reaching its peak when we received it. I trust that wasn’t just coincidence.”
“No coincidence at all. I keep my ear to the ground and word got around that you had a space rat plague on Neeka. I figured you could use my services.”
Lesno nodded. “We had heard a few stories about you but didn’t know whether to believe them or not. Your advertising claims were quite impressive. I just hope you can live up to them.”
About twenty exporters and importers were waiting in the conference room on the second floor of the Traders League office complex. It was a motley group of discordant colors, shapes, sizes, and ages. Lesno entered ahead of Orz and lost no time in bringing the meeting to order.
“We all know why we’re here,” he said, tapping the gavel twice, “so there’s really no use in wasting time with introductions.” He pointed to Orz. “The creature on this man’s shoulder is introduction enough: Ratman has arrived and he’s going to tell us something about himself and about space rats.” So saying, he relinquished the podium.
Nothing like a businesslike business, Orz thought as he stood up and received a slight spattering of applause.
They knew of his claim to be able to control space rats with space rats and were frankly dubious. But this was nothing new.
Without even a glance at the audience, he nonchalantly snapped his fingers and tapped the top of the podium. 62 immediately leaped from his shoulder to the podium and began to sniff the wood curiously.
“This,” he began, “although a specimen of Rattus interstellus, is not a true space rat’ in the full sense of the word; but his parents were. Lab-raised space rats—such as 62, here—can turn out to be quite friendly, but they are no less cunning, no less intelligent, and certainly no less vicious when cornered. These are the rats I employ, so to speak.
“But first let’s puncture a few of the myths that have grown up around the space rat. First of all, no matter what the spacers tell you, space rats have no psi powers; they don’t know what you’re going to do next . . . it’s just that their reflexes are developed to such a high degree that it almost seems that way when you take pot shots at one with a blaster. They will respond to ultra-frequency tones but by no means do they have a language . . . they’re intelligent, all right, but they’re a long way from a language.”
His eyes flicked over the audience. These were traders, barterers; they recognized a man who knew what he was talking about, and they were all listening intently.
He continued. “But just what is it that distinguishes the space rat from other rats?” To dramatize his point, he allowed 62 to crawl onto the back of his hand and then held the fidgety creature aloft.
“This is the product of centuries in the pressurized but unshielded holds of interstellar cargo ships. Wild genetic mutation and the law of survival of the fittest combined to produce a most adaptable, ferocious, and intelligent creature.
“Everyone knew of the space rat’s existence, but no one paid much attention to him until an ensign aboard the freighter Clinton was kept awake one night by the continuous opening and closing of the compartment door outside his cabin. The ship was in port, and, under normal circumstances, he would have spent the night in town, but for one reason or another he had returned to his quarters.
“Now, these doors which divide the corridors into compartments open automatically when you touch the release panel, and remain open as long as a simple electric eye beam is broken; when the beam makes contact again, the door closes. The doors naturally make some noise when they operate, and this is what was disturbing the ensign. But, every time he checked to see who was wandering up and down the corridor, he found no one. Checking with the guard detail, he found that he was the only person authorized to be in that area of the ship.
“So he set up watch. Opening his door a crack, he peeked through to the corridor and waited. But no one came and he was about to give up when he spotted this large space rat come running down the corridor. As it approached the door it leaped over a meter into the air and threw itself against the release panel. The door slid open as the creature landed on the floor and it scurried through before the door closed again.”
The traders were smiling and shaking their heads in wonder as Orz paused and placed 62 back on the podium. “Since it is doubtful t
hat the rat could have accidentally leaped against the release panel, it must be assumed that he learned by watching. That would make him a highly unusual rat . . . they thought. Then they discovered that the whole colony aboard the Clinton knew how to operate the doors! Then other spacers on other ships began watching for space rats while their ships were in port—that’s when their movements are the greatest; they stick pretty much to the cargo holds in transit—and it was discovered that the Clinton rats were not so extraordinary. These reports fired the interest of researchers who figured they would go out and catch themselves a few space rats and put them through some tests.”
The audience broke into laughter at this point. They were all well familiar with the elusiveness of the space rat.
“Another characteristic of the space rat was soon discovered: viciousness. It took quite a while, but after much effort and many scars a number of space rats were caught. And, as expected, they proved virtually untrainable. We hoped to do better with their offspring.
“I was working with the offspring when I heard about a rat problem in the nearby spaceport. Traps, poison, even variable frequency sonic repellers had failed to control them, I went to investigate and found that a good many space rats were jumping ship and setting up residence in the warehouses which ring every spaceport. Another factor was added: In the warehouses they meet other strains of space rat from other ships and the resultant cross-breeding produces a strain more intelligent and more ferocious than even the cargo-ship rat. I managed to catch half a dozen in as many months, mated them and began to go to work on the offspring. Through a mixture of imprinting and operant conditioning, second-generation space rats proved quite tractable.
“But I needed more wild rats and tried the wild idea of training my lab rats to help catch other rats. It worked out so well that I decided to go into the business of space-rat control.”
He paused and glanced around the room. “Any questions?”
An elderly trader in the front row raised a bony hand. “Just how does one rat go about catching another?” he asked in a raspy voice.