No help there.
Bert sat staring into the water.
A sound came from the Settlement behind him. He did not hear it start. He was suddenly aware that men’s voices were singing. Occasional drunken bawling was familiar, but men singing lustily, cheerfully, with hope in their hearts was a thing he had not heard for a very long time. He raised his head, listening:
“Oh! There’s lots of gold so I’ve been told
On the banks of the Sacramento…”
It floated across the sands like an anthem. Shades of the forty-niners, ghosts of covered wagon trains crawling, crawling across prairies and deserts, over mountains, forging on against hardships and hunger. With not much gold at the end, perhaps—only an arid land. But a land which their sons would make to bloom like a garden there beside the Pacific…
Bert stood up. Decision poured into his blood like strong drink. He felt a glow of comradeship for the men who sang. He turned, squaring his shoulders. He carried himself like a man refreshed as he strode towards the Settlement again. Throwing back his head, he let it go with the rest:
“Oh-h-h I There’s lots of gold so I’ve been told
On the banks of the Sacramento…”
BERT was gazing out of the window as the narrow-gauge electric train pulled away. The perpetual clouds which allowed never a glimpse of the sun, hung greyly over the landscape. The grasslike growth on the cleared ground looked pale, insipid, and scarcely green at all. The forest beyond rose like a woven wall of much the same ghostly tint. The details of the distance were blurred, of course, for it was raining—the way it did nine-tenths of the time on Venus.
On one side the line ran close to the landing-field. Hulks of space-ships lay about there like half-flensed whales. They had been gutted of all useful instruments and parts long ago, and huge slices had been cut from the sides of many to supply the need for hard metals. Only the small Rutherford, A4, stood intact and shipshape, ready to take off in a day or two on a second trip to Mars. Figures were still busy around her. It was reckoned that she would be able to make three trips during this conjunction, after that she would have to lay off for a while until the next.
Over on the far side of the landing field coils of black smoke poured from the metal mills and rolled away across country, sooting the pale trees.
Whatever else you might feel about it, you had to admit that a staggering amount of work had been put into the place in thirteen years.
Through the other windows which faced the inner side of the curve the line was taking one could see the houses of the Settlement dotted about. Here and there among them magnificent pennant-trees had been deliberately left standing. Their immensely long leaves rippled in the wind, writhing like Medusa’s hair. Crowning the central rise of the Settlement stood the massive pallisades of the seraglio. The upper part of the stockaded wall bristled with down-pointing stakes, and above a top fringed with sharp spines an occasional roof ridge showed.
Bert’s neighbour noticed the direction of his gaze.
“Pie in the sky,” he observed, shortly. “Jam to-morrow.”
Bert turned his head to look at him. He saw a man of middle height, perhaps ten years older than himself. As with all the Venusian colonists his skin was pale, and had a softened, flabby look.
“Meaning?” Bert inquired.
“Just that,” said the man. “The old dangling carrot. You’re one of the lot from Mars, aren’t you?”
Bert admitted it. The man went on:
“And you think that one day they’ll say: ‘Okay, you’ve been a good boy!’ and let you into that place?”
“I’ve been examined,” Bert told him. “They’ve immunised me against everything anybody ever heard of, and they’ve given me a certificate which says I’m healthy and fit for parenthood.”
“Sure, sure,” said the man. “We’ve all got ’em. Don’t mean a thing.”
“But it certifies—”
“I know.—And what’d you have done if it didn’t certify? You’d have raised hell. Well, they don’t want guys raising hell around here, so they give you one. S’easy.”
“Oh,” said Bert.
“Sure. And now they’ve given you a job so that you can show you’re a good, reliable type. If they’re satisfied with your work you’ll be granted full citizen rights. That’s fine. Only you’ll find that they can’t quite make up their minds about you on this job—so they’ll give you another, maybe one or two more before they do. And then, if you’re very, very good and respectful you’ll become a citizen—if you aren’t, you can still go on trying to make the grade. Take it from me, it’s a nice tidy kind of racket, pal.”
“But if I do become a citizen?” asked Bert.
“IF you do, they’ll congratulate you. Pat you on the back. Tell you you’re a swell guy, worthy to become one of the fathers of the new Venusian nation. The old carrot again, pal. Unfortunately, they’ll say, unfortunately there isn’t a wife available for you just at the moment.” So you’ll not be able to set up house in the seraglio for a little while. So sorry. But if you go on being a good boy—. So you do. After a while you get restive, and go to them again. They’re sorry, but nothing doing just yet. In fact there’s a bit of a list ahead of you. Trouble is boys took to the climate here better than girls. Very unfortunate just at present. But it’ll be better later on. All you have to do is be patient—and go on being good—for a few years, and the balance will right itself. Then you’ll be able to move into nice comfortable married quarters in the seraglio… You’ll have a sweet little wife, become the father of a family, and a Founder of the State. Jam tomorrow, pal… If you should get sore, and tell ’em a few things, you lose your citizenship—like me. If you get to be a real nuisance around the place—well, you sort of disappear.”
“You mean that all they tell you is phoney?” asked Bert.
“Phoney, pal? It stinks. Chris Davey took this place over the day after we heard about Earth cracking up. Since then he’s let his buddies run it the way they like—so long as they produce the goods. The result is plenty of work for everyone—and no muscling in.”
Bert looked out of the window again. The Settlement was behind them now. The cleared ground on either side of the line was planted with unfamiliar, almost colourless crops. Here and there parties of the little yard-high griffas toiled between the rows, with the rain dripping from their silver fur as they worked. Occasionally a man in a long waterproof coat and a shovel-shaped hat was to be seen striding from one group to another and inspecting progress. Another part of his uniform was a whip.
“Well, they’ve got some results to show,” he said, looking back at the smudge from the metal mills, almost hidden now by rain and mist.
“Yes, they’ve got that,” the man admitted. “That’s the griffas mostly—the donkey-work, I mean. There’s plenty of griffas—all you like to round up in the forests. Lucky for you and me.”
“How?” asked Bert.
“On account of they need us to supervise. The griffas won’t work without. So it’s no good having unlimited griffas without men to look after them. That makes Chris Davey’s buddies think twice before they wipe a man out. Take me. I’m what they call a subversive element—and I’d not be here now if they didn’t need all of us they can get to look after the griffas. It was even worth bringing your lot from Mars.”
“And what do the griffas get out of it?” Bert asked.
“The chance to live a little longer—if they work,” said the man.