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production a man can turn out in an hour represents an arbitrary constant-two dollars, a
dozen difals or whatever it
is. That's the base for any economic set-up. And it's the base we've got to hit. The ancestor
worship, the power of the tarkomars-they're superficial really. Once the basic system is
challenged, they'll go down."
"I don't see where it gets us," Thirkell said.
"Make the man-hours variable," Underhill explained. "Once we do that, anything can
happen."
"Something had better happen," Bronson said, "and quick. We've little food left."
"Shut up," Munn said. "I think the kid's got the right angle. Alter the man-hour constant,
eh? How can we do that? Specialized training? Train a Venusian to turn out twice as much
stuff in the same period of time? Skilled labor?"
"They've got skilled labor," Underhill said. "If we could make 'em work faster, or increase
their stamina-"
"Benzedrine plus," Thirkell interrupted. "With enough caffeine, vitamin complex and
riboflavin-I could whip up a speeder-upper, all right."
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Munn nodded slowly. "Pills, not shots. If this works out, we'll have to do it undercover
after a while."
"What the devil will it get us to make the Venusians work faster?" Bronson asked.
Underhill snapped his fingers. "Don't you see? Venus is ultraconservative. The economic
system is frozen static. It isn't adapted to change. There'll be hell popping!"
Munn said, "We'll need advertising to arouse public interest first of all. A practical
demonstration." He looked around the table, his gaze settling on Mike Soaring Eagle.
"Looks like you're elected, Redskin. You've more stamina than any of us, according to the
tests we took back on Earth."
"All right," the Navaho said. "What do I do?"
"Work!" Underhill told him. "Work till you drop!"
It began early the next morning in the main plaza of Vyring. Munn had checked up
carefully, determined to make sure nothing would go wrong, and had learned that a
recreation building was to be constructed on the site of the plaza. "Work won't start for
several weeks," Jorust said. "Why?"
'We want to dig a hole there," Munn said. "Is it legal?"
The Venusian smiled. "Why, of course. That's public domain-until the contractors begin.
But a demonstration of your muscular prowess won't help you, I'm afraid."
"Eh?"
"I'm not a fool. You're trying to land a job. You hope to do that by advertising your
abilities. But why do it in just this way? Anybody can dig a hole. It isn't specialized."
Munn grunted. If Jorust wanted to jump at that conclusion, swell. He said, "It pays to
advertise. Put a steam shovel to work, back on Earth, and a crowd wifi gather to watch it.
We don't have a steam shovel, but-"
"Well, whatever you like. Legally you're within your rights. Nevertheless you can't hold a
job without joining a tarkoinar."
"Sometimes I think your planet would be a lot better off without the tarkoinars," Munn
said bluntly.
Jorust moved her shoulders. "Between ourselves, I have often thought so. I am merely an
administrator, however. I have no real power. I do what I'm told to do. If I were permitted,
I would be glad to lend you the money you need-"
"What?" Munn looked at her. "I thought-"
The woman froze. "It is not permitted. Tradition is not always wisdom, but I can do
nothing about it. To defy the tarkomars is unthinkable and useless. I am sorry."
Munn felt a little better after that, somehow. The Venusians weren't all enemies. The all-
powerful tarko-mars, jealous of their power, fanati
cally desirous of preserving the status quo, were responsible for this mess.
When he got back to the plaza, the others were waiting. Bronson had rigged up a
scoreboard, in phonetic Venusian, and had laid out mattock, pick, shovel, wheelbarrow
and boards for the Navaho, who stood, a brawny, red-bronze figure, stripped to the waist
in the cool wind. A few canal-boats had stopped to watch.
Munn looked at his watch. "O.K., Redskin. Let's go. Steve can start-"
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Underhill began to beat a drum. Bronson put figures on the scoreboard: 4:o3:oo, Venusian
Vyring Time. Thirkell went to a nearby camp table, littered with bottles and medical
equipment, shook from a vial one of the stimulant pills he had concocted, and gave it to
Mike Soaring Eagle. The Indian ate it, heaved up the mattock and went to work.
That was all.
A man digging a hole. Just why the spectacle should be so fascinating no one has ever
figured out. The principle remains the same, whether it's a steam shovel scooping out half
a ton of earth at a bite, or a sweating, stocky Navaho wielding shovel and pick. The boats
grew thicker.
Mike Soaring Eagle kept working. An hour passed. Another. There were regular, brief rest
periods, and Mike kept rotating his tools, to get all his muscles into play. After breaking
earth for a while with the mattock, he would shovel it into the wheelbarrow, roll his
burden up a plank and dump it on an ever growing pile some distance away. Three hours.
Four. Mike knocked off for a brief lunch. Bronson kept track of the time on his scoreboard.
Thirkell gave the Navaho another pill. "How're you doing?"
"Fine. I'm tough enough."
"I know, but these stimulants-they'll help."
Underhill was at a typewriter. He had already ground out a tremendous lot of copy, for he
had been working since Mike Soaring Eagle started. Bronson had discovered a long-
forgotten talent and was juggling makeshift Indian clubs and colored balls. He'd been
keeping that up for quite a while, too.
Captain Rufus Munn was working a sewing machine. He didn't especially like the task, but
it was precision work, and therefore helpful to the plan. All the party except Thirkell was
doing something, and the physician was busy administering pills and trying to look like an
alchemist.
Occasionally he visited Munn and Underhill, collected stacks of
paper and carefully sewn scraps of cloth, and deposited them in various boxes near the
canal, labelled, "Take One." On the cloth a legend was machine-embroidered in Venusian:
"A Souvenir from Earth." The crowds thickened.
The Earthmen worked on. Bronson kept juggling, with pauses for refreshment. Eventually [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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