Torres grew aware that Van Rijn was thrusting a full goblet into his hand. “Here, you drink this.” It burned all the way down. “I have seen conditioned men. I was a rough—and-tumbler myself in younger days.” The, merchant went back behind his desk and rekindled his pipe. “It is a fiendish thing to do, ja.”
“If you want to outfit a punitive expedition, sir,” said Torres savagely, “I guarantee you can get full crews.”
“No.” The curled, shoulder-length black locks swished greasily as Van Rijn shook his head. “The League does not have many capital ships. It is unprofitable. The cost of a war with Borthu would wipe out ten years’ gains. And then we will have trouble with the milksop governments of a hundred planets. No.”
“Isn’t there some kind of pressure you can put on the Kossalu himself?”
“Hah! You think maybe we have not tried? Economic sanctions do not work; they are not interested in trade outside their own empire. Threats they laugh at. They know that they have more navy than we will ever build. Assassins never get close to the big potatoes.” Van Rijn cursed for two straight minutes without repeating himself. “And there they sit, fat and greedy-gut, across the route to Antares and all stars beyond! It is not to be stood!”
He had been prowling the floor; now he whirled about with surprising speed for so large and clumsy a man. “This strike of yours brings it to a head. And speaking of heads, it is getting time for a tall cold beer. I shall have to confer with my fellows. Tell your men there will be steps taken if it is financially possible. Now get out!”
It is a truism that the structure of a society is basically determined by its technology. Not in an absolute sense—there may be totally different cultures using identical tools—but the tools settle the possibilities: you can’t have interstellar trade without spaceships. A race limited to one planet, possessing a high knowledge of mechanics but with all its basic machines of commerce and war requiring a large capital investment, will inevitably tend toward collectivism under one name or another. Free enterprise needs elbow room.
Automation made manufacturing cheap, and the cost of energy nose-dived when the proton converter was invented. Gravity control and the hyperdrive opened a galaxy to exploitation. They also provided a safety valve: a citizen who found his government oppressive could usually emigrate elsewhere, which strengthened the libertarian planets; their influence in turn loosened the bonds of the older world.
Interstellar distances being what they are, and intelligent races all having their own ideas of culture, there was no union of planetary systems. Neither was there much war: too destructive, with small chance for either side to escape ruin, and there was little to fight about. A race doesn’t get to be intelligent without an undue share of built-in ruthlessness, so all was not sweetness and brotherhood—but the balance of power remained fairly stable. And there was a brisk demand for trade goods. Not only did colonies want the luxuries of home, and the home planets want colonial produce, but the old worlds had much to swap.
Under such conditions, an exuberant capitalism was bound to strike root. It was also bound to find mutual interest, to form alliances and settle spheres of influence. The powerful companies joined together to squeeze out competitors, jack up prices, and generally make the best of a good thing. Governments were limited to a few planetary systems at most; they could do little to control their cosmopolitan merchants. One by one, through bribery, coercion, or sheer despair, they gave up the struggle.
Selfishness is a potent force. Governments, officially dedicated to altruism, remained divided; the Polesotechnic League became a super-government, sprawling from Canopus to Polaris, drawing its membership from a thousand species. It was a horizontal society, cutting across all political and cultural boundaries. It set its own policies, made its own treaties, established its own bases, fought its own minor wars—and, in the course of milking the Milky Way, did more to spread a truly universal civilization and enforce a lasting Pax than all the diplomats in the galaxy.
But it had its own troubles.
One of Nicholas van Rijn’s mansions lay on the peak of Kilimanjaro, up among the undying snows. It was an easy spot to defend, and a favorite for conferences.
His gravcar slanted down through a night of needle-sharp stars, toward the high turrets and glowing lanterns. Looking through the roof, he picked out the cold sprawl of Scorpio. Antares flashed a red promise, and he shook his fist at the suns between. “So! Monkey business with Van Rijn, by damn. The whole Sagittarius cluster’s waiting to be opened, and you in the way. This will cost you money, my friends, gut and kipper me if it don’t.”
He thought back to days when he had ridden a bucketing ruin of a ship through the great hollow spaces, bargaining under green skies, and in poisonous winds for jewels Earth had never seen before; and a moment’s wistfulness tugged at him. A long time now since he had been any farther than the Moon…poor old fat man, chained to one miserable planet and unable to turn an honest credit. The Antares route was more important than he dared admit; if he lost it, he lost his chance at the Sagittarian developments, to corporations with offices on the other side of the Kossaluth. In today’s pitiless competition, you either went on expanding or you went under. And he had made too many enemies, they were waiting for the day of his weakness.
The car landed itself, and the guards jumped out to flank him. He wheezed the thin chill air into sooty lungs, drew his cloak of phosphorescent onthar skin tightly about him, and scrunched across frosty paving to the house. There was a new maid at the door, pretty little baggage…Venusian French, was she? He tossed his plumed hat at her as the butler said the Freemen were already here. He sat down and told the chair “Conference Room” and went along corridors darkly paneled in the wood of a hundred planets.
There were four colleagues around the table when he entered. Kraaknach of the Martian Transport Company was glowing his yellow eyes at a Frans Hals on the wall. Firmage of North American Engineering puffed an impatient cigar. Mjambo, who owned Jo-Boy Technical Services—which supplied indentured labor to colonial planets—was talking into his wristphone. Gornas-Kiew happened to be on Earth and was authorized to speak for the Centaurians; he sat quietly waiting, hunched into his shell, only the delicate antennae moving.
Van Rijn plumped himself into the armchair at the head of the table. Waiters appeared with trays of drinks, smokes, and snacks. He took a large bite from a ham sandwich and looked inquiringly at the others.
Kraaknach’s owl-face turned to him. “Well, Freeman host, I understand we are met on account of this Borthudian brokna. Did the spacemen make their ultimatum?”
“Ja.” Van Rijn picked up a cigar and rolled it between his fingers. “It grows serious. They will not take ships through the Kossaluth, except to get revenge, while this shanghai business goes on.”
“So why not blast the Borthudian home planet?” asked Mjambo.
“Death and damnation!” Van Rijn tugged at his goatee. “I had a little computation run off today. Assuming we lost no ships—and Borthu has good defenses—but allowing for salaries; risk bonus, fuel, ammunition, maintenance, depreciation, estimated loss due to lack of protection elsewhere, lawsuits by governments afraid the Kossaluth may strike back, bribes, and loss of profits to be had if the cost were invested peaceably—the bill for that little operation would come to about thirty trillion credits. In a nutshell, we cannot afford it. Simmons, a bowl of Brazils!”