Anchorite Page 6

right of every individual tobe respected--but only because Earth has put pressure on them.Otherwise, people who, through no fault of their own, were unable towork or get 'space experience' would be unable to get jobs and would belooked down upon as pariahs."

  "You mean there are people here who have no jobs? I wouldn't think thatunemployment would be a problem out here."

  "It isn't," said Tarnhorst, "yet. But there are always thoseunfortunates who are psychologically incapable of work, and society mustprovide for them. The Belt Cities provide for a basic education, ofcourse. As long as a person is going to school, he is given a stipend.But a person who has neither the ability to work nor the ability tostudy is an outcast, even though he is provided for by the companies. Heis forced to do something to earn what should be his by right; he isgiven menial and degrading tasks to do. We would like to put a stop tothat sort of thing, but we ... ah ... have no ... ah ... means of doingso." He paused, as though considering whether he had said too much.

  "The problem at hand," he went on hurriedly, "is the death curve. Whenthis technique for taking the rocks to the smelters was being workedout, the death rate was--as you might imagine--quite high. The BeltCompanies had already been operating out here for a long time before thestony meteorites were mined commercially. At first, the big thing wasnickel-iron. That's what they came here to get in the beginning. That'swhere most of the money still is. But the stony asteroids provide themwith their oxygen.

  "This anchor-setting technique was worked out at a time when the BeltCompanies were trying to find ways to make the Belt self-sufficient.After they got the technique worked out so that it operated smoothly,the death rate dropped 'way down. It stayed down for a little while, andthen began to rise again. It has nearly reached an all-time high.Obviously, something is wrong, and we have to find out what it is."

  Danley scratched ruminatively behind his right ear and wished he'd hadthe opportunity to study history. He had been vaguely aware, of thebroad outlines, but the details had never been brought to his attentionbefore. "Suppose Alhamid _is_ trying to hide something," he said after amoment. "What would it be, do you think?"

  Tarnhorst shrugged and spread his hands. "What could it be but some sortof money-saving scheme? Inferior materials being used at a criticalspot, perhaps. Skimping on quality or quantity. Somewhere, somehow, theyare shaving costs at the risk of the workers' lives. We have to find outwhat it is."

  Peter Danley nodded. _You don't mean_ "_we_," Danley thought to himself.I _am the one who's going to have to go out there and find it, while yousit here safe_. He felt that there was a pretty good chance that theseBelt operators might kill him to keep him from finding out what it wasthey were saving money on.

  Aloud, he said: "I'll do what I can, Mr. Tarnhorst."

  Tarnhorst smiled. "I'm certain you will. That's why I needed someone whoknows more about this business than I."

  "And when we do find it--what then?"

  "Then? Why, then we will force them to make the proper changes or therewill be trouble."

  * * * * *

  Georges Alhamid heard the whole conversation early the next morning. Thegovernor himself brought the recording over to his office.

  "Do you think he knew he was being overheard?"

  The governor shrugged. "Who knows. He waltzed all around what he wastrying to say, but that may have been just native caution. Or he may notwant Danley to know what's on his mind."

  "How could he bring Danley out here without telling him anythingbeforehand?" Alhamid asked thoughtfully. "Is Danley really thatignorant, or was the whole conversation for our ears?"

  "I'm inclined to think that Danley really didn't know. Remember, George,the best way to hold down the ones below you is to keep them fromgaining any knowledge, to keep data out of their hands--except for thecarefully doctored data you want them to have."

  "I know," Alhamid said. "History isn't exactly a popular subject onEarth." He tapped his fingers gently on the case of the playback andlooked at it as if he were trying to read the minds of the persons whohad spoken the words he had just heard.

  "I really think he believed that his nullifying equipment was doing itsjob," the governor continued. "He wouldn't have any way of knowing wecould counteract it."

  Alhamid shrugged. "It doesn't matter much. We still have to assume thathe's primarily out to bring the Belt Cities under Earth control. To dothat, all he'd have to do is find something that could be built up intoa scandal on Earth."

  "Not, _all_, George," the governor said. "It would take a lot more thanthat alone. But it would certainly be a start in the right direction."

  "One thing we do know," Alhamid said, "is that nobody on Earth willallow any action against the Belt unless popular sentiment is definitelyagainst us. As long as we are apparently right-thinking people, we'reall right. I wonder why Tarnhorst is so anxious to get us under thethumb of the People's Congress? Is it purely that half-baked idealism ofhis?"

  "Mostly. He has the notion that everybody has a right to be accorded therespect of his fellow man, and that that right is something that everyperson is automatically given at birth, not something he has to earn.What gave him his particular gripe against us, I don't know, but he'sbeen out to get us ever since his trip here three years ago."

  "You know, Larry," Alhamid said slowly, "I'm not quite sure which isharder to understand: How a whole civilization could believe that sortof thing, or how a single intelligent man could."

  "It's a positive feedback," the governor said. "That sort of thing haswrecked civilizations before and will do it again. Let's not let itwreck ours. Are you ready for the conference with our friend now?"

  Georges Alhamid looked at the clock on the wall. "Ready as I'll ever be.You'd better scram, Larry. We mustn't give Mr. Tarnhorst the impressionthat there's some sort of collusion between business and government outthere in the Belt."

  "Heaven forfend! I'll get."

  When he left, the governor took the playback with him. The recordingwould have to be filed in the special secret files.

  * * * * *

  Captain St. Simon eased his spaceboat down to the surface of Pallas andthrew on the magnetic anchor which held the little craft solidly to themetal surface of the landing field. The traffic around Pallas was fairlyheavy this time of year, since the planetoid was on the same side of thesun as Earth, and the big cargo haulers were moving in and out, loadingrefined metals and raw materials, unloading manufactured goods fromEarth. He'd had to wait several minutes in the traffic pattern beforebeing given clearance for anchoring.

  He was already dressed in his vacuum suit, and the cabin of the boat wasexhausted of its air. He checked his control board, making sure everyswitch and dial was in the proper position. Only then did he open thedoor and step out to the gray surface of the landing field. Hissuitcase--a spherical, sealed container that the Belt men jokinglyreferred to as a "bomb"--went with him. He locked the door of his boatand walked down the yellow-painted safety lane toward the nearest airlock leading into the interior of the planetoid.

  He lifted his feet and set them down with precision--nobody but a foolwears glide boots on the outside. He kept his eyes moving--up andaround, on both sides, above, and behind. The yellow path was supposedto be a safety lane, but there was no need of taking the chance ofhaving an out-of-control ship come sliding in on him. Of course, if itwas coming in really fast, he'd have no chance to move; he might noteven see it at all. But why get slugged by a slow one?

  He waited outside the air-lock door for the green light to come on.There were several other space-suited figures around him, but he didn'trecognize any of them. He hummed softly to himself.

  The green light came on, and the door of the air lock slid open. Thesmall crowd trooped inside, and, after a minute, the door slid shutagain. As the elevator dropped, St. Simon heard the familiar _whoosh_ asthe air came rushing in. By the time it had reached the lower level, theelevator was up to pressure.


  * * * * *

  On Earth, there might have been a sign in such an elevator, reading: _DONOT REMOVE VACUUM SUITS IN ELEVATOR._ There was no need for it here;every man there knew how to handle himself in an air lock. If he hadn't,he wouldn't have been there.

  After he had stepped out of the elevator, along with the others, and thedoor had closed behind him, St. Simon carefully opened the crackingvalve on his helmet. There was a faint hiss of incoming air, adjustingthe slight pressure differential. He took off his helmet, tucked itunder his arm, and headed for the check-in station.

  He was walking down the corridor toward the checker's office when a handclapped him on the shoulder. "Bless me if it isn't St. Simon the Silent!Long time no, if you'll pardon the cliche, see!"

  St. Simon turned, grinning. He had recognized the voice. "Hi, Kerry.Good to see you."

  "Good to see me? Forsooth! Od's bodkins! Hast turned liar on top ofeverything else, Good Saint? Good to see me, indeed! 'From such a faceand form as mine, the noblest sentiments sound like the black utterancesof a depraved imagination.' No, dear old holy pillar-sitter, no indeed!It may be a pleasure to hear my mellifluous voice--a pleasure I oftenindulge in, myself--but it couldn't possibly be a pleasure to _see_ me!"And all the while, St. Simon was being pummeled heartily on theshoulder, while his hand was pumped as though the other man wasexpecting to strike oil at any moment.

  His assailant was not a handsome man. Years before, a rare, fast-movingmeteor had punched its way through his helmet and taken part of his facewith it. He had managed to get back to his ship and pump air in beforehe lost consciousness. He had had to stay conscious, because the onlything that held the air in his helmet had been his hand pressed over thequarter-inch hole. Even so, the drop in pressure had done its damage.The surgeons had done their best to repair the smashed face, but KerryBrand's face hadn't been much to look at to begin with. And the mottledpurple of the distended veins and capillaries did little to improve hislooks.

  But his ruined face was a badge of honor, and Kerry Brand knew the factas well as anyone.

  Like St. Simon, Captain Brand was a professional anchor-setter. Most ofthe men who put in the necessary two years went on to better jobs afterthey had the required space experience. But there were some who likedthe job and stuck with it. It was only these men--the real experts amongthe anchor-setting fraternity--who rated the title of "Captain". Theywere free-lancers who ran things pretty much their own way.

  "Just going to the checker?" St. Simon asked.

  Kerry Brand shook his head. "I've already checked in, old sanctus. AndI'll give you three and one-seventh guesses who got a blue ticket."

  St. Simon said nothing, but he pointed a finger at Brand's chest.

  "A mild surmise, but a true one," said Brand. "You are, indeed, gazingupon Professor Kerry Brand, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.--that is to say, Borer ofAsteroids, Master of Anchors, and Planetoid-hauler De-luxe. No, no;don't look sorry for me. _Some_body has to teach the tadpoles How ToSurvive In Space If You're Not Too Stupid To Live--a subject upon whichI am an expert."

  "On Being Too Stupid To Live?" St. Simon asked gently.

  "A touch! A distinct touch! You are developing a certain unexpected veinof pawky humor, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself." Helooked at the watch on his wrist. "Why don't you go ahead and check in,and then we'll go pub-crawling. I have it on good authority that a fewthousand gallons of Danish ale were piped aboard Pallas yesterday, andyou and I should do our best to reduce the surplus."

  "Sounds good to me," said St. Simon agreeably. They started on towardthe checker's office.

  "Consider, my dear St. Simon," said Brand, "how fortunate we are to beliving in an age and a society where the dictum, 'Those who can, do;those who can't, teach,' no longer holds true. It means that we weary,work-hardened experts are called in every so often, handed our littleblue ticket, and given six months off--_with_ pay--if we will only dothe younger generation the favor of pounding a modicum of knowledge intotheir heads. During that time, if we are very careful, we can try toprevent our muscles from going to flab and our brains from corrodingwith ennui, so that when we again debark into the infinite sea ofemptiness which surrounds us to pursue our chosen profession, we don'tget killed on the first try. Isn't it wonderful?"

  "Cheer up," said St. Simon. "Teaching isn't such a bad lot. And, afterall, you do get paid for it."

  "And at a salary! A Pooh-Bah paid for his services! I a salaried minion!But I do it! It revolts me, but I do it!"

  The short, balding man behind the checker's desk looked up as the twomen approached. "Hello, captain," he said as St. Simon stepped up to thedesk.

  "How are you, Mr. Murtaugh?" St. Simon said politely. He handed over hislog book. "There's the data on my last ten. I'll be staying here for afew days, so there's no need to rush the refill requisition. Any callsfor me?"

  The checker put the log book in the duplicator. "I'll see if there are,captain." He went over to the autofile and punched St. Simon's serialnumber.

  Very few people write to an anchor man. Since he is free to check in andreload at any of the major Belt Cities, and since, in his search forasteroids, his erratic orbit is likely to take him anywhere, it might bemonths or years before a written letter caught up with him. On the otherhand, a message could be beamed to every city, and he could pick it upwherever he was. It cost money, but it was sure.

  "One call," the checker said. He handed St. Simon a message slip.

  It was unimportant. Just a note from a girl on Vesta. He promisedhimself that he'd make his next break at Vesta, come what may. He stuckthe flimsy in his pocket, and waited while the checker went through theroutine of recording his log and making out a pay voucher.

  There was no small talk between himself and the checker. Mr. Murtaughhad not elected to take the schooling necessary to qualify for otherthan a small desk job. He had no space experience. Unless and until hedid, there would be an invisible, but nonetheless real barrier betweenhimself and any spaceman. It was not that St. Simon looked down on theman, exactly; it was simply that Murtaugh had not proved himself, and,therefore, there was no way of knowing whether he could be trusted ornot. And since trust is a positive quality, lack of it can only meanmistrust.

  Murtaugh handed Captain St. Simon an envelope. "That's it, captain.Thank you."

  St. Simon opened the envelope, took out his check--and a blue ticket.

  Kerry Brand broke into a guffaw.

  * * * * *

  When the phone on his desk rang, Georges Alhamid scooped it up andidentified himself.

  "This is Larry, George," said the governor's voice. "How are things sofar?"

  "So far, so good," Alhamid said. "For the past week, Mr. Peter Danleyhas been working his head off, under the tutelage of two of thetoughest, smartest anchor men in the business. But you should have seenthe looks on their faces when I told them they were going to have anEarthman for a pupil."

  The governor laughed. "I'll bet! How's he coming along?"

  "He's learning. How are you doing with your pet?"

  "I think I'm softening him, George. I found out what it was that got hisgoat three years ago."

  "Yeah?"

  "Sure. On Ceres, where he went three years ago, he was treated as if heweren't as good as a Belt man."

  Alhamid frowned. "Someone was disrespectful?"

  "No--that is, not exactly. But he was treated as if we didn't trust hisjudgment, as though we were a little bit afraid of him."

  "Oh-_ho_! I see what you mean."

  "Sure. We treated him just as we would anyone who hasn't proved himself.And that meant we were treating him the same way we treated our own'lower classes', as he thought of them. I had Governor Holger get hisCeres detectives to trace down everything that happened. You can readthe transcript if you want. There's nothing particularly exciting in it,but you can see the pattern if you know what to look for.

  "I'm not even certain it was fully
conscious on his part; I'm not surehe knew why he disliked us. All he was convinced of was that we werearrogant and thought we were better than he is. It's kind of hard for usto see that a person would be that deeply hurt by seeing the plain truththat someone else is obviously better at something than he is, butyou've got to remember that an Earthman is brought up to believe thatevery person is just exactly as good as every other--and no better. Aman may have a skill that you don't have, but that doesn't make himsuperior--oh, my, no!

  "Anyway, I started out by apologizing for our habit of standing up allthe time. I managed to plant the idea in his mind that the only thingthat made him think we felt superior was that habit. I've even got himto the point where he's standing up all the time, too. Makes him feelvery superior. He's learned the native customs."

  "I get you," Alhamid said. "I probably contributed to that inferiorityfeeling of his myself."

  "Didn't we all? Anyway, the next step was to take him around andintroduce him to some of the execs in the government and in a couple ofthe Companies--I briefed 'em beforehand. Friendly chats--that sort ofthing. I think we're going to have