Norstrilia - Illustrated Read online

  The Lord Redlady nodded. “Go ahead and eat, boy. It’s on me.”

  Rod sat up. His shirt was still blood-caked and he realized that it was almost worn out.

  “That’s an odd sight, I must say,” said the huge doctor Wentworth. “There’s the richest man in many worlds, and he hasn’t the price of a new pair of overalls.”

  “What’s odd about that? We’ve always charged an import fee of twenty million percent of the orbit price of goods,” snapped angry John Fisher. “Have you ever realized what other people have swung into orbit around our sun, just waiting for us to change our minds so they could sell us half the rubbish in the universe? This planet would be knee-deep in junk if we ever dropped our tariff. I’m surprised at you, doctor, forgetting the fundamental rules of Old North Australia!”

  “He’s not complaining,” said Aunt Doris, whom the drink had made loquacious. “He’s just thinking. We all think.”

  “Of course we all think. Or daydream. Some of us leave and go offplanet to be rich people on other worlds. A few of us even manage to get back here on severe probation when we realize what the offworlds are like. I’m just saying,” said the doctor, “that Rod’s situation would be very funny to everybody except us Norstrilians. We’re all rich with the stroon imports, but we’ve kept ourselves poor in order to survive.”

  “Who’s poor?” snapped the fieldhand Hopper, apparently touched at a sensitive point. “I can match you with megacredits, doc, any time you care to gamble. Or I’ll meet you with throwing knives, if you want them better. I’m as good as the next man!”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said John Fisher. “Hopper here can argue with anybody on the planet. We’re still equals, we’re still free, we’re not the victims of our own wealth—that’s Norstrilia for you!”

  Rod looked up from his food and said, “Mister and Owner Secretary Fisher, you talk awfully well for somebody who is not a freak like me. How do you do it?”

  Fisher started looking angry again, though he was not really angry: “Do you think that financial records can be dictated telepathically? I’m spending centuries out of my life, just dictating into my blasted microphone. Yesterday I spent most of the day dictating the mess which you have made of the Commonwealth’s money for the next eight years. And you know what I’m going to do at the next meeting of the Commonwealth Council?”

  “What?” said Rod.

  “I’m going to move the condemnation of that computer of yours. It’s too good to be in private hands.”

  “You can’t do that!” shrieked Aunt Doris, somewhat mellowed by the Earth beverage she was drinking. “It’s MacArthur and McBan family property.”

  “You can keep the temple,” said Fisher with a snort, “but no bloody family is going to outguess the whole planet again. Do you know that boy sitting there has four megacredits on Earth at this moment?”

  Bill hiccuped. “I got more than that myself.”

  Fisher snarled at him, “On Earth? FOE money?”

  A silence hit the room.

  “FOE money. Four megacredits? He can buy Old Australia and ship it out here to us!” Bill sobered fast.

  Said Lavinia mildly, “What’s foe money?”

  “Do you know, Mister and Owner McBan?” said Fisher, in a peremptory tone. “You had better know, because you have more of it than any man has ever had before.”

  “I don’t want to talk about money,” said Rod. “I want to find out what the Onseck is up to.”

  “Don’t worry about him!” laughed the Lord Redlady, prancing to his feet and pointing at himself with a dramatic forefinger. “As the representative of Earth, I filed six hundred and eighty-five lawsuits against him simultaneously, in the name of your Earth debtors, who fear that some harm might befall you…”

  “Do they really?” said Rod. “Already?”

  “Of course not. All they know is your name and the fact that you bought them out. But they would worry if they did know, so as your agent I tied up the Hon. Sec. Houghton Syme with more law cases than this planet has ever seen before.”

  The big doctor chuckled. “Dashed clever of you, my Lord and Mister! You know us Norstrilians pretty well, I must say. If we charge a man with murder, we’re so freedom-minded that he has time to commit a few more before being tried for the first one. But civil suits! Hot sheep! He’ll never get out of those, as long as he lives.”

  “Is he onsecking any more?” said Rod.

  “What do you mean?” asked Fisher.

  “Does he still have his job—Onseck?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Fisher, “but we put him on two hundred years’ leave and he has only about a hundred and twenty years to live, poor fellow. Most of that time he will be defending himself in civil suits.”

  Rod finally exhaled. He had finished the food. The small polished room with its machined elegance, the wet air, the bray of voices all over the place—these made him feel dreamlike. Here grown men were standing, talking as though he really did own Old Earth. They were concerned with his affairs, not because he was Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan the hundred and fifty-first, but because he was Rod, a boy among them who had stumbled upon danger and fortune. He looked around the room. The conversations had accidentally stopped. They were looking at him, and he saw in their faces something which he had seen before. What was it? It was not love. It was a rapt attentiveness, combined with a sort of pleasurable and indulgent interest. He then realized what the looks signified. They were giving him the adoration which they usually reserved only for cricket players, tennis players, and great track performers—like that fabulous Hopkins Harvey fellow who had gone offworld and had won a wrestling match with a “heavy man” from Wereld Schemering. He was not just Rod any more. He was their boy.

  As their boy, he smiled at them vaguely and felt like crying.

  The breathlessness broke when the large doctor, Mister and Owner Wentworth, threw in the stark comment, “Time to tell him, Mister and Owner Fisher. He won’t have his property long if we don’t get moving. No, nor his life either.”

  Lavinia jumped up and cried out, “You can’t kill Rod—”

  Doctor Wentworth stopped her. “Sit down. We’re not going to kill him. And you there, stop acting foolish! We’re his friends here.”

  Rod followed the line of the doctor’s glance and saw that Hopper had snaked his hand back to the big knife he wore in his belt. He was getting ready to fight anyone who attacked Rod.

  “Sit, sit down, all of you, please!” said the Lord Redlady, speaking somewhat fussily with his singsong Earth accent. “I’m host here. Sit down. Nobody’s killing Rod tonight. Doctor, you take my table. Sit down yourself. You will stop threatening my ceiling or your head. You, Ma’am and Owner,” said he to Aunt Doris, “move over there to that other chair. Now we can all see the doctor.”

  “Can’t we wait?” asked Rod. “I need to sleep. Are you going to ask me to make decisions now? I’m not up to decisions, not after what I’ve just been through. All night with the computer. The long walk. The bird from the Onseck—”

  “You’ll have no decisions to make if you don’t make them tonight,” said the doctor firmly and pleasantly. “You’ll be a dead man.”

  “Who’s going to kill me?” asked Rod.

  “Anybody who wants money. Or wants power. Or who would like unlimited life. Or who needs these things to get something else. Revenge. A woman. An obsession. A drug. You’re not just a person now, Rod. You’re Norstrilia incarnate. You’re Mr. Money himself! Don’t ask who’d kill you! Ask who wouldn’t! We wouldn’t…I think. But don’t tempt us.”

  “How much money have I got?” said Rod.

  Angry John Fisher cut in: “So much that the computers are clotted up, just counting it. About one and a half stroon years. Perhaps three hundred years of Old Earth’s total income. You sent more Instant Messages last night than the Commonwealth government itself has sent in the last twelve years. These messages are expensive. One kilocredit in
FOE money.”

  “I asked a long time ago what this ‘foe money’ was,” said Lavinia, “and nobody has got around to telling me.”

  The Lord Redlady took the middle of the floor. He stood there with a stance which none of the Old North Australians had ever seen before. It was actually the posture of a master of ceremonies opening the evening at a large night club, but to people who had never seen those particular gestures, his movements were eerie, self-explanatory and queerly beautiful.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, using a phrase which most of them had only heard in books, “I will serve drinks while the others speak. I will ask each in turn. Doctor, will you be good enough to wait while the Financial Secretary speaks?”

  “I should think,” said the doctor irritably, “that the lad would be wanting to think over his choice. Does he want me to cut him in two, here, tonight, or doesn’t he? I should think that would take priority, wouldn’t you?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the Lord Redlady, “the Mister and Doctor Wentworth has a very good point indeed. But there is no sense in asking Rod about being cut in two unless he knows why. Mister Financial Secretary, will you tell us all what happened last night?”

  John Fisher stood up. He was so chubby that it did not matter. His brown, suspicious, intelligent eyes looked over the lot of them.

  “There are as many kinds of money as there are worlds with people on them. We here on Norstrilia don’t carry the tokens around, but in some places they have bits of paper or metal which they use to keep count. We talk our money into the central computers which even out all our transactions for us. Now what would happen if I wanted a pair of shoes?”

  Nobody answered. He didn’t expect them to.

  “I would,” he went on, “go to a shop, look in the screen at the shoes which the offworld merchants keep in orbit. I would pick out the shoes I wanted. What’s a good price for a pair of shoes in orbit?”

  Hopper was getting tired of these rhetorical questions so he answered promptly,

  “Six bob.”

  “That’s right. Six minicredits.”

  “But that’s orbit money. You’re leaving out the tariff,” said Hopper.

  “Exactly. And what’s the tariff?” asked John Fisher, snapping.

  Hopper snapped back, “Two hundred thousand times, what you bloody fools always make it in the Commonwealth Council.”

  “Hopper, can you buy shoes?” said Fisher.

  “Of course I can!” The station hand looked belligerent again but the Lord Redlady was filling his glass. He sniffed the aroma, calmed down and said, “All right, what’s your point?”

  “The point is that the money in orbit is SAD money—S for secure, A for and, D for delivered. That’s any kind of good money with backing behind it. Stroon is the best backing there is, but gold is all right, rare metals, fine manufactures, and so on. That’s just the money off the planet, in the hands of the recipient. Now how many times would a ship have to hop to get to Old Earth itself?”

  “Fifty or sixty,” said Aunt Doris unexpectedly. “Even I know that.”

  “And how many ships get through?”

  “They all do,” said she.

  “Oh, no,” cried several of the men in unison.

  “About one ship is lost every sixty or eighty trips, depending on the solar weather, on the skills of the Pinlighters and the Go-Captains, on the landing accidents. Did any of you ever see a really old captain?”

  “Yes,” said Hopper with gloomy humor, “a dead one in his coffin.”

  “So if you have something you want to get to Earth, you have to pay your share of the costly ships, your share of the Go-Captain’s wages and the fees of his staff, your share of the insurance for their families. Do you know what it could cost to get this chair back to Earth?” said Fisher.

  “Three hundred times the cost of the chair,” said Doctor Wentworth.

  “Mighty close. It’s two hundred and eighty-seven times.”

  “How do you know so mucking much?” said Bill, speaking up. “And why waste our time with all this crutting glubb?”

  “Watch your language, man,” said John Fisher. “There are some mucking ladies present. I’m telling you this because we have to get Rod off to Earth tonight, if he wants to be alive and rich—”

  “That’s what you say!” cried Bill. “Let him go to his house. We can load up on little bombs and hold up against anybody who could get through the Norstrilian defenses. What are we paying these mucking taxes for, if it’s not for the likes of you to make sure we’re safe? Shut up, man, and let’s take the boy home. Come along, Hopper.”

  The Lord Redlady leaped to the middle of his own floor. He was no prancing Earthman putting on a show. He was the old Instrumentality itself, surviving with raw weapons and raw brains. In his hand he held a something which none of them could see clearly.

  “Murder,” he said, “will be done this moment if anybody moves. I will commit it. I will, people. Move, and try me. And if I do commit murder, I will arrest myself, hold a trial, and acquit myself. I have strange powers, people. Don’t make me use them. Don’t even make me show them.” The shimmering thing in his hand disappeared. “Mister and Doctor Wentworth, you are under my command, by loan. Other people, you are my guests. Be warned. Don’t touch that boy. This is Earth territory, this cabin we’re in.” He stood a little to one side and looked at them brightly out of his strange Earth eyes.

  Hopper deliberately spat on the floor. “I suppose I would be a puddle of mucking glue if I helped old Bill?”

  “Something like it,” said the Lord Redlady. “Want to try?” The things that were hard to see were now in each of his hands. His eyes darted between Bill and Hopper.

  “Shut up, Hopper. We’ll take Rod if he tells us to go. But if he doesn’t—it crudding well doesn’t matter. Eh, Mister and Owner McBan?”

  Rod looked around for his grandfather, dead long ago: then he knew they were looking at him instead. Torn between sleepiness and anxiety, he answered,

  “I don’t want to go now, fellows. Thank you for standing by. Go on, Mister Secretary, with the foe money and the sad money.”

  The weapons disappeared from the Lord Redlady’s hands.

  “I don’t like Earth weapons,” said Hopper, speaking very loudly and plainly to no one at all, “and I don’t like Earth people. They’re dirty. There’s nothing in them that’s good honest crook.”

  “Have a drink, lads,” said the Lord Redlady with a democratic heartiness which was so false that the workwoman Eleanor, silent all the evening, let out one wild caw of a laugh, like a kookaburra beginning to whoop in a tree. He looked at her sharply, picked up his serving jug, and nodded to the Financial Secretary, John Fisher, that he should resume speaking.

  Fisher was flustered. He obviously did not like this Earth practice of quick threats and weapons indoors, but the Lord Redlady—disgraced and remote from Old Earth as he was—was nevertheless the accredited diplomat of the Instrumentality, and even Old North Australia did not push the Instrumentality too far. There were things supposed about worlds which had done so.

  Soberly and huffily he went on,

  “There’s not much to it. If the money is discounted thirty-three and one third percent per trip and if it takes fifty-five trips to get to Old Earth, it takes a heap of money to pay up in orbit right here before you have a minicredit on Earth. Sometimes the odds are better. Your Commonwealth government waits for months and years to get a really favorable rate of exchange and of course we send our freight by armed sailships, which don’t go below the surface of space at all. They just take hundreds or thousands of years to get there, while our cruisers dart in and out around them, just to make sure that nobody robs them in transit. There are things about Norstrilian robots which none of you know, and which not even the Instrumentality knows—” He darted a quick look at the Lord Redlady, who said nothing to this, and went on, “Which makes it well worth while not to muck around with one of our perishing ships
. We don’t get robbed much. And we have other things that are even worse than Mother Hitton and her littul kittons. But the money and the stroon which finally reaches Old Earth itself is FOE money, F, O, E. F is for free, O is for on, E is for Earth. F, O, E—free on Earth. That’s the best kind of money there is, right on Old Earth itself. And Earth has the final exchange computer. Or had it.”

  “Had it?” said the Lord Redlady.

  “It broke down last night. Rod broke it. Overload.”

  “Impossible!” cried Redlady. “I’ll check.”

  He went to the wall, pulled down a desk. A console, incredibly miniature, gleamed out at them. In less than three seconds it glowed. Redlady spoke into it, his voice as clear and cold as the ice they had all heard about:

  “Priority. Instrumentality. Short of War. Instant. Instant. Redlady calling. Earthport.”

  “Confirmed,” said a Norstrilian voice, “confirmed and charged.”

  “Earthport,” said the console in a whistling whisper which filled the room.

  “Redlady—instrumentality—official—centputer—all—right—question—cargo—approved—question—out.”

  “Centputer—all—right—cargo—approved—out,” said the whisper and fell silent.

  The people in the room had seen an immense fortune squandered. Even by Norstrilian standards, the faster-than-light messages were things which a family might not use twice in a thousand years. They looked at Redlady as though he were an evil-worker with strange powers. Earth’s prompt answer to the skinny man made them all remember that though Old North Australia produced the wealth, Earth still distributed much of it, and that the supergovernment of the Instrumentality reached into far places where no Norstrilian would even wish to venture.

  The Lord Redlady spoke mildly, “The central computer seems to be going again, if your government wishes to consult it. The ‘cargo’ is this boy here.”