myself.Therefore, it is not a title of courtesy, but of ability."
The manager had long since realized that he was dealing with a Beltman, not an Earth citizen, and that the registration robot had senthim the card because of that, not because there was anything illegal.Men from the Belt did not come to Earth either willingly or often.
Still unable to override his instincts--which erroneously told himthat there was something "wrong"--the manager said: "What does the'Sir' mean?"
Harry Morgan glowed warmly. "Well, now, Mr. Manager, I will tell you.I will give you an analogy. In the time of the Roman Republic,twenty-one centuries or so ago, the leader of an Army was given thetitle _Imperator_. But that title could not be conferred upon him bythe Senate of Rome nor by anyone else in power. No man could callhimself _Imperator_ until his own soldiers, the men under him, hadpublicly acclaimed him as such. If, voluntarily, his own men shouted'_Ave, Imperator!_' at a public gathering, then the man could claimthe title. Later the title degenerated--" He stopped.
The manager was staring at him with uncomprehending eyes, and Morgan'soutward smile became genuine. "Sorry," he said condescendingly. "Iforgot that history is not a popular subject in the Welfare World."Morgan had forgotten no such thing, but he went right on. "What Imeant to say was that the spacemen of the Belt Cities have voluntarilyagreed among themselves to call me 'sir'. Whether that is a title ofability or a title of courtesy, you can argue about with me at anothertime. Right now, I want my room key."
Under the regulations, the manager knew there was nothing else hecould do. He had made a mistake, and he knew that he had. If he hadonly taken the trouble to read the rest of the card--
"Awfully sorry, Mr. Morgan," he said with a lopsided smile that didn'teven look genuine. "The--"
"Watch those courtesy titles," Morgan reprimanded gently. "'Mister'comes ultimately from the Latin _magister_, meaning 'master' or'teacher'. And while I may be your master, I wouldn't dare think Icould teach you anything."
"All citizens are entitled to be called 'Mister'," the manager saidwith a puzzled look. He pushed a room key across the desk.
"Which just goes to show you," said Harry Morgan, picking up the key.
He turned casually, took one or two steps away from the registrationdesk, then--quite suddenly--did an about-face and snapped: "_Whathappened to Jack Latrobe?_"
"Who?" said the manager, his face gaping stupidly.
Harry Morgan knew human beings, and he was fairly certain that themanager couldn't have reacted that way unless he honestly had nonotion of what Morgan was talking about.
He smiled sweetly. "Never you mind, dear boy. Thank you for the key."He turned again and headed for the elevator bank, confident that themanager would find the question he had asked about Jack Latrobe socompletely meaningless as to be incapable of registering as a usefulmemory.
He was perfectly right.
III
The Belt Cities could survive without the help of Earth, and theSupreme Congress of the United Nations of Earth knew it. But theyalso knew that "survive" did not by any means have the same semanticor factual content as "live comfortably". If Earth were to vanishovernight, the people of the Belt would live, but they would beseriously handicapped. On the other hand, the people of Earth couldsurvive--as they had for millennia--without the Belt Cities, and whiledoing without Belt imports might be painful, it would by no means bedeadly.
But both the Belt Cities and the Earth knew that the destruction ofone would mean the collapse of the other as a civilization.
Earth needed iron. Belt iron was cheap. The big iron deposits of Earthwere worked out, and the metal had been widely scattered. The removalof the asteroids as a cheap source would mean that iron would becomeprohibitively expensive. Without cheap iron, Earth's civilizationwould have to undergo a painfully drastic change--a collapse andregeneration.
But the Belt Cities were handicapped by the fact that they had had asyet neither the time nor the resources to manufacture anything butabsolute necessities. Cloth, for example, was imported from Earth. Asociety that is still busy struggling for the bare necessities--suchas manufacturing its own air--has no time to build the huge loomsnecessary to weave cloth ... or to make clothes, except on a minorscale. Food? You can have hydroponic gardens on an asteroid, butraising beef cattle, even on Ceres, was difficult. Eventually,perhaps, but not yet.
The Belt Cities were populated by pioneers who still had not given upthe luxuries of civilization. Their one weakness was that they hadtheir cake and were happily eating it, too.
Not that Harry Morgan didn't realize that fact. A Belt man is, aboveall, a realist, in that he must, of necessity, understand the Laws ofthe Universe and deal with them. Or die.
Commodore Sir Harry Morgan was well aware of the stir he had createdin the lobby of the Grand Central Hotel. Word would leak out, and heknew it. The scene had been created for just that purpose.
"_Grasshopper sittin' on a railroad track, Singin' polly-wolly-doodle-alla-day! A-pickin' his teeth with a carpet tack, Singin' polly-wolly-doodle-alla-day!_"
He sang with gusto as the elevator lifted him up to the seventy-fourthfloor of the Grand Central Hotel. The other passengers in the car didnot look at him directly; they cast sidelong glances.
_This guy_, they seemed to think in unison, _is a nut. We will pay noattention to him, since he probably does not really exist. Even if hedoes, we will pay no attention in the hope that he will go away._
On the seventy-fourth floor, he _did_ go away, heading for his room.He keyed open the door and strolled over to the phone, where a messagehad already been dropped into the receiver slot. He picked it up andread it.
COMMODORE SIR HARRY MORGAN, RM. 7426, GCH: REQUEST YOU CALL EDWAY TARNHORST, REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE OF GREATER LOS ANGELES, SUPREME CONGRESS. PUNCH 33-981-762-044 COLLECT.
"How news travels," Harry Morgan thought to himself. He tapped out thenumber on the keyboard of the phone and waited for the panel to lightup. When it did, it showed a man in his middle fifties with a lean,ascetic face and graying hair, which gave him a look of saintlywisdom.
* * * * *
"Mr. Tarnhorst?" Morgan asked pleasantly.
"Yes. Commodore Morgan?" The voice was smooth and precise.
"At your service, Mr. Tarnhorst. You asked me to call."
"Yes. What is the purpose of your visit to Earth, commodore?" Thequestion was quick, decisive, and firm.
Harry Morgan kept his affability. "That's none of your business, Mr.Tarnhorst."
Tarnhorst's face didn't change. "Perhaps your superiors haven't toldyou, but--and I can only disclose this on a sealed circuit--I am insympathy with the Belt Cities. I have been out there twice and havelearned to appreciate the vigor and worth of the Belt people. I am onyour side, commodore, in so far as it does not compromise my position.My record shows that I have fought for the rights of the Belt Citieson the floor of the Supreme Congress. Have you been informed of thatfact?"
"I have," said Harry Morgan. "And that is precisely why it is none ofyour business. The less you know, Mr. Tarnhorst, the safer you willbe. I am not here as a representative of any of the City governments.I am not here as a representative of any of the Belt Corporations. Iam completely on my own, without official backing. You have shownyourself to be sympathetic towards us in the past. We have no desireto hurt you. Therefore I advise that you either keep your nose out ofmy business or actively work against me. You cannot protect yourselfotherwise."
Edward Tarnhorst was an Earthman, but he was not stupid. He hadmanaged to put himself in a position of power in the Welfare World,and he knew how to handle that power. It took him exactly two secondsto make his decision.
"You misunderstand me, commodore," he said coldly. "I asked what Iasked because I desire information. The People's Government is tryingto solve the murder of Commodore Jack Latrobe. Assuming, of course,that it was murder--which is open to doubt. His body was found threedays ago in
Fort Tryon Park, up on the north end of Manhattan Island.He had apparently jumped off one of the old stone bridges up there andfell ninety feet to his death. On the other hand, it is possible that,not being used to the effects of a field of point nine eight Standardgees, he did not realize that the fall would be deadly, andaccidentally killed himself. He was alone in the park at night, as faras we can tell. It has been ascertained definitely that norepresentative of the People's Manufacturing Corporation Number 873was with him at the time. Nor, so far as we can discover, was anyoneelse. I asked you to call because I wanted to know if you had anyinformation for us. There was no other reason."
"I haven't seen Jack since he