The Merchant's War by Frederik Pohl Read Free Book Online Page B

dance was at last over I was glad to head for the bar. The only open space was next to Pavel Borkmann, head of some section of the Veenie Department of Heavy Industry. I’d met him before and intended ten minutes of nonthreatening chat about how their new Hilsch barrage in the Anti-Oasis was going, or whether they were satisfied with the new rocket plant. That didn’t work out either, because he too had heard snatches of my little dialogue with the Extraplanetary Affair. “You ought not to get into fights where you’re overmatched,” he grinned, referring both to my late dance partner and to the obvious scars I had collected from the tram. If I’d had any sense I would have chosen the meaning that was least chancy and told him all about the tram accident. My feelings were ruffled; I took the other course, “She was way out of line,” I complained, signaling for a drink I certainly didn’t need.
    But Borkmann had had a drink more than he needed too, it seemed, because he too took the path with the beartraps in it. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “You have to understand that we Free Venusians have moral objections to forcing people to buy things—especially at the point of a gun.”
    “There aren’t any guns pointed at Hyperion, Borkmann! You know that.”
    “Not yet,” he admitted, “but haven’t there been such cases right on your home planet?” I laughed, pitying him. “You’re talking about the abos, I suppose.”
    “I’m talking about the pitiful few corners of the Earth that haven’t yet been corrupted by advertising, yes.”
    Well, by then I was getting irritated. “Borkmann,” I said, “you know better than that. We do maintain a peacekeeping body, of course. I suppose some few of them have guns, but they’re only for protection. I did my own reserve training in college; I know what I’m talking about. They are never used offensively, only to preserve order. You must realize that even among the worst of the aboriginals there are plenty of people who want to have the benefits of the market society. Naturally, the old fuddy-duddies resist. But when the better elements ask for help, why, of course we give it.”
    “You send in the troops,” he nodded.
    “We send in advertising teams,” I corrected him. “There is no compulsion. There is no force. “
    “And,” he mimicked, “there is no escape — they found that out in New Guinea.”
    “It’s true that things got out of hand in New Guinea,” I admitted. “But really—”
    “Really,” he said, slamming down his glass, “I have to be going now, Tarb. Nice talking to you.” And he left me fuming. Why, there was really nothing wrong in New Guinea! There had been less than a thousand deaths all told. And now the island was firmly a part of the modern world—we even had a branch of the Agency in Papua! I swallowed my drink in one gulp and turned away … and almost bumped into Hay Lopez, grinning at me. Walking away, glancing back at me over her shoulder, was the Chief of Station. I saw her join the Ambassador and whisper in his ear, still looking at me, and realized this was turning out to be a pretty bad day. Since I was on my way home anyway there was little the Embassy people could do to me, but still I resolved to behave like a proper dip for the rest of the evening.
    That didn’t work out, either. Through the luck of the draw, the second partner I drew was Dirty Berthie, the Turncoat Earthie. I should’ve been faster on my feet; I guess I was still a little groggy. I turned around, and there she was, boozy breath, sloppy-fat face and hair piled up on her head to make her look taller. “My dance, I believe, Tenny?” she giggled.
    So gallantly I lied, “I’ve been looking forward to it!” What you can say for Dirty Berthie is that even in those spike heels and haystack hairdo, she doesn’t tower over you the way the natives do. That’s about all you can say for her. Converts are always the worst, and Bertha, who is