“We don’t allow any Vaneks to eat in here,” Jeffers told him.
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t, that’s why!”
Junior could feel himself getting angry. He tried to put a lid on it. “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. “It’s my place and I’ve got a right to call the shots in my own place!”
“Nobody said you didn’t only . . . only you could treat him with a certain amount of human dignity.” He winced at the triteness of his word.
“He’s a half-breed!”
“Then how about half the amount of dignity you’d accord a human? 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 the plate. “I arrived on the planet about a week ago.”
“Then you’re not even from Jebinose!” Jeffers laughed. “You’re a foreigner!”
“Aren’t we all,” Junior remarked as he walked out the door.
The Vanek was seated on the boardwalk finishing his meal. Junior sat down beside him but put his own plate aside. He was choked with what he knew to be self-righteous anger and couldn’t eat. He 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, “but we’re going to change his attitude and I think I know just the way.”
The Vanek gave him a questioning glance.
“You’re going to take me to your tribe, or camp, or whatever it’s called and we’re going to put some pressure on Mr. Jeffers.” Junior was speaking of economic pressure, of course. Economic pressure was a household word as far as the Finch family was concerned.
And so it began. Junior had found something unexpected in the young Vanek’s attitude, had read it in the flick of a gaze, the twist of a mouth. For all their outward indifference, their detached air, the Vanek were keenly aware of the discrimination they faced daily in the Terran towns. Junior had seen through the facade and this gave him an incentive to do something about the situation.
He convinced the young Vanek to take him to the local Vanek leaders so he could present his plan. The scheme was simplicity itself. If Jeffers would not allow a Vanek to eat in his store, then no Vanek should spend a cent in that store. Since the Vanek made up a good fifty percent of the local buying public, they could cripple Jeffers’ profits in no time.
The Vanek leaders quickly agreed to the plan and a very self-satisfied Junior Finch spent the night in a nearby field. The morning held some surprises, however, when he returned to town; for as he approached Jeffers’s store, two Vanek emerged carrying sacks of foodstuffs.
Junior had overlooked one simple fact: Jeffers’s store was the only place within a twenty-mile radius where you could buy food. He would have to think of another way to put pressure on Jeffers.
There were two options: the Vanek could either open their own store, or they could find a way to buy food from a store twenty miles away. The first was out; the Vanek were not cut out for shopkeeping. That left buying in another town as the only solution.
Junior started walking. It took him over six hours to reach Zarico, the nearest town. As he entered the town he had an intense sensation of deja vu; it was as if he had traveled in a tremendous circle and wound up right back in Danzer. The buildings were amazingly similar to those in Danzer; there was even a general store-restaurant.
The attitudes were similar, too. Vincent Peck, the owner, allowed no Vanek to eat in his store. But Junior changed his mind . . . it took two hours of hard talking, a half-gallon of local wine and endless repetitions of Junior’s promise to incease sales by at least fifty percent if only he’d let the Vanek eat lunch in his store.
Peck finally agreed. He wasn’t exactly crazy about the Vanek, but he was a businessman first and increased sales meant increased profits. This was the plan: Junior would use Peck’s lorry to ferry the Vanek back and forth from Danzer for a two-week trial; if the plan turned out to be worth his while, Peck would continue to cooperate.
Apparently Peck found it very worthwhile for after the trial period he offered Junior a salary to keep on driving the lorry. Jeffers and many other Danzer citizens resented this intrusion into their affairs by an outsider, but Marvin Heber was overjoyed; he went so far as to inform the news media.
This was a mixed blessing: it resulted in the anonymous donation of a bus for transport of the Vanek from Danzer to Zarico and back, but it also heightened the local resentment toward Junior—the people of Danzer felt that the rest of the planet was laughing at them. And one night a couple of locals in their cups administered a mild beating to Junior. But there was no real harm done.
Finally, one of the legislators from the capital paid a visit to Junior and invited him to speak before the legislature on behalf of the Integration Bill. As Junior turned him down—explaining that the success of his venture in Danzer would prove the bill unnecessary—Bill Jeffers walked up and capitulated. He had tried to hold out but it was useless; he was beaten. His business could not survive without the Vanek and so they could eat lunch in his store from that day forward.
Junior and Jeffers left the legislator to his own devices while they went off to drink to harmony and higher profits in Danzer.
Next morning, Junior was found lying in the alley next to Jeffers’s store. He was dead, a Vanek ceremonial dagger implanted in his heart.
No one for a moment believed that the Vanek were responsible for the act, even when they confessed to it. No Vanek had ever been known to lie, but this instance was considered an exception, especially since they buried Junior themselves with full rights and honors, a ceremony accorded only to the wisest and most beloved of their own race. They were not killers and certainly wouldn’t kill a man they loved so. Marvin Heber came to the conclusion that the Vanek were lying out of fear and so he looked for a human agent. He found none.
And as is so often the case, the ghost of Junior Finch was tearfully used to obtain enough votes to pass the Integration Bill, the very bill he had tried to prove unnecessary.
“IBA sent out its own investigators, of course,” Old Pete said as they pulled into the Casino, “but they could uncover nothing new. Either the murderer was a human, who did a perfect cover-up job, or your father actually was killed by the Vanek—a highly unlikely possibility.
“And, as you know,” he concluded, “we left your father’s body in its grave on Jebinose. It somehow belonged there.”
Jo nodded. She had not asked for a full recounting of the events on Jebinose, but Old Pete had obviously made a careful investigation and the details had given her a fuller picture of her father’s character than she had ever got from her mother. She was glad she had asked.
Alighting from the flitter they were greeted by an elaborately costumed doorman to whom Jo was obviously a familiar figure. He bowed them into the front entrance.
The Casino consisted of a number of large rooms, each devoted to particular games of chance. Jo headed directly for the pokochess parlor. This was her favorite game, a game of chance and skill in which each player was “dealt” a king, three pawns and five other randomly selected pieces. The two players could place wagers on the outcome at any point during the course of the game. Pokochess was not very popular with the Casino because the house could make money only when a guest played the house “pro.” But the game was the current rage on Ragna and a pokochess parlor was found to be a good draw; patrons could use the Casino’s parlor for a small fee per game.
Larry Easly was sitting at one of the tables with an associate. Easly could have been a very distinguished looking man if he had wanted to be, but the nature of his profession demanded a somewhat nondescript appearance. And so he made certain that his clothes, his posture,
the cut of his hair, everything about him invited anonymity. He was a detective and very, very good at his work.
He looked up and saw Jo and Old Pete approaching. With a smile, he rose and greeted them. Introductions were made all around and the four of them seated themselves around the table. After a bit of polite conversation, Easly’s assistant, Deggs, excused himself to make a call.
“What’s the news, Larry?” Jo asked. “We’ll discuss that first and then I’ll give you a rematch at pokochess . . . and I hope you do better this time.”
Easly nodded. “O.K. First off, I found out a good deal about this Denver Haas you’re interested in. He’s a physical engineer who has recently developed something he calls a ‘warp gate’ and he’s ready to go into production.”
Noting the questioning stares, he explained. “It seems that Haas has eliminated the necessity for an individual warp unit on every interstellar ship. He’s also found a way to make trips of almost any distance in one jump. All you have to do is set up two gates—one at each end—and go through one and come out the other.”
“Teleportation!” Old Pete exclaimed.
“Not at all,” Easly said. “The ship in question travels in warp just like ships do now, but the advantage lies in the fact that the ship merely follows a beam between the gates in a single hop. It’s quicker and you can send ships through one after the other and the ships need be equipped only with tube drive. Do you realize what this will do for interstellar trade?”
Pete frowned. “I know what it can do . . . but I also see some problems.”
“I see them, too,” Jo said.
Easly was puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked, looking to Jo.
“I’m talking about getting the product off the ground.” Old Pete nodded in agreement with Jo. She continued. “The device is a definite fortune-maker, but it will take a while before it starts to pay off. You see, every single ship in every merchant fleet is equipped with its own warper, so a warp gate is of no value to those fleets, at least not yet. They won’t start buying warp gates until they start replacing some of their ships.”
Old Pete summed it up. “In other words, the warp gates will be phased in only as fast as the individual warpers can be phased out.”
“And that may not be fast enough for Mr. Haas’s little company,” Jo added.
“And what does that mean?” Easly asked.
“Star Ways,” was the extent of Jo’s reply but Easly understood.
“But what’s the connection between Haas and deBloise?” Pete asked.
“Money,” Easly said. “DeBloise is financing Haas but for some reason he wants his name kept out of it; he’s gone to an awful lot of trouble to cover any connection between Haas and himself. The same goes for the others who are in on the deal.”
“Who are they?” Paxton asked. “The list reads like a who’s who of the Restructurist movement. The cover job has been excellent, by the way. I couldn’t prove to any court that deBloise is behind Haas. My informants have assured me that they’ll deny every word they’ve said if they’re brought into court.”
“Well, at least we know he’s behind it,” Jo mused. She turned to Old Pete. “What do you think? I’d be tempted to forget the whole thing except for the cover-up; that makes me suspicious.”
Paxton shook his head. “I really don’t know what to do next. Maybe Mr. Easly could send one of his men to Jebinose to just sort of sniff around and—”
“Jebinose!” Jo exclaimed. “What’s Jebinose got to do with this?”
“Didn’t you know?” Old Pete said with surprise. “That’s deBloise’s home planet.”
Jo was shocked. “I knew he represented that sector, but I never dreamed he was from Jebinose itself.”
“Yes, he was born there. As a matter of fact, he was principal sponsor of the Integration Bill when your father was there. As another matter of fact, he pleaded for the bill’s passage with the cry that Junior Finch must not have died in vain!”
Jo shook her head. “I never realized . . .” Her face suddenly hardened, “Larry, I want you to go to Jebinose personally and look into deBloise and see what you can find, if anything. And you might check out a town named Danzer while you’re at it.”
“I thought you didn’t want to get IBA involved in any political matters,” Old Pete remarked in a slightly bantering tone.
“This political matter just might become a personal matter,” Jo replied.
Old Pete leaned back in his chair and tried unsuccessfully to prevent a very satisfied smile from creasing his face.
III
Jo decided to pay Denver Haas a personal visit. The man had ignored all the literature forwarded to him and had refused to see any IBA representatives. Jo hated interstellar travel, hated that wave of nausea that occurs each time the ship comes in and out of warp, but Haas was located on Dil and that was only two jumps away. That wasn’t too bad and maybe a personal visit from IBA’s number-one officer would have some effect on the man. She hoped it would be worth it. He had promised to see her when she arrived.
Haas lived and worked in a converted warehouse not too far from the spaceport. The most vital and innovative aspects of his warp gate were now covered by Federation patents and so security was no longer of great importance. Still, Jo had to be cleared twice before she was allowed to enter the building.
Haas was obviously not out to impress anybody. The inside of the building was as dingy as the outside and a lone, harried receptionist-secretary occupied the single desk in the cluttered foyer.
Jo presented the girl with her clearance sheet. “Josephine Finch to see Mr. Haas,” she said.
The girl took the sheet without looking up, checked the appointment book and nodded. She pressed a button and said: “Miss Finch is here.”
“Send her in,” replied a gruff voice.
The girl pointed to a nondescript door with a simple “Haas” printed on it. Jo knocked and entered.
The office was an unbelievable clutter of filing cabinets, diagrams, blueprints and miscellaneous notes and drawings on scraps of paper. Denver Haas, a feverish little man, was bent over his desk, reading and making notes, looking like a gnome king ensconced among his treasures. He looked up as he heard the door, close.
“Ah, Miss Finch,” he said, smiling tightly. “You’ve come. This is quite an honor even if it is a waste of time for both of us. He rose, gathered some papers off a chair and threw them on the floor. Pushing the chair around to the front of the desk, he said, “Please sit down.”
Jo did so and waited for the little man to regain his seat. He was older than she had imagined with an unruly shock of graying hair and, of all things, a beard. With all the permanent depilation techniques available, facial hair was an unusual sight.
“Well, what is it you wanted to see me about?” he demanded.
“Your new product,” Jo said simply. “I think it has good potential and I’m here to convince you that IBA can help you get the most out of it.”
He smiled with what he thought was slyness. “And what makes you think I need any help from IBA at all?”
“The very nature of the warp gate,” she stated. “It’s major advantage is the simple fact that once you have a pair of them set up, shipping over any distance will become quicker, easier and dirt cheap. That’s fine for the major companies along the major trade routes, but that won’t sell too many gates for you. I don’t know what it will cost to purchase one, but I’m sure they won’t be cheap.”
Haas nodded in agreement and Jo continued.
“And don’t forget that all the freighters currently in use are equipped with individual warpers. It would be of little use for a company to send these ships through a gate when they can go by themselves. And what about the smaller companies that may have trouble meeting your price—”
Haas held up his hand. “I’ve thought of that and it’s all taken care of. If we get an initial flood of orders—and I’ve no doubt we will—we’ll be able to produce the subsequ
ent gates at a lower price because we’ll be able to increase production scale.” He leaned back with a what-do-you-think-of-that? look on his face.
“I figured on that,” Jo said. “But what about Star Ways?”
“What about it?”
“Competition. Star Ways is the biggest conglomerate in the galaxy and the individual warper is their meat-and-potatoes product. You don’t think they’re just going to sit still and let you make their primary product obsolete, do you? They’re going to cut their prices down—way down—until you fold. And when you go out of business, they’ll come along and buy up the rights to the warp gate. The royalties you’ll receive from them will give you enough money to last you three lifetimes, of course, but your company will be gone. IBA can prevent that from happening, or at least give SW a battle the likes of which it’s never seen.”
“No,” Haas said, shaking his head, “that will never happen. SW will never get the rights to the gate because I own them completely—completely. And I’ll never sell: I’m not after money . . . it’s something more than that. The warp gate is my life, I’ve worked on nothing else for as long as I can remember. Only recently have I been able to devote my full time to it, but it has been with me always. I’ve worked as an engineer, an architect, even a technician when times weren’t so good, but I’ve always come home to the game. It’s part of me now . . . I would no sooner lease the gate to another company than I would lease my right arm to another man. The Haas company will only lease the rights from me and if the Haas company can’t sell the gate, no one will.”
Jo smiled inwardly. She wondered if deBloise was aware of Mr. Haas’s plans for his invention; this monomaniac was just asking for financial ruin.
“I wonder what your backers would say if they knew this?” she asked.
“They know and they’re with me one hundred percent!”
Jo was taken aback by this statement; it didn’t make sense.
“And just who are your backers?”
“I can’t tell you. It seems they wish to remain anonymous which is strange, but none of my concern. I’ve searched long and hard to find men with vision such as these. We are in complete accord and everything is legal so I really don’t care if they want to remain anonymous.” He rose. “And now I must get back to my work. But I do want to thank you for stopping in; I’ve had the utmost confidence in the gate but you’ve managed to boost it even higher.”