At the scheduled time the bus slid smoothly away from Solaray, and braked to a stop in Allada seventy miles away in fifteen minutes. Shane Brent realized with a tight smile that it was the first time he had made any trip on Venus without paying any attention to the lush bluish-black vegetation below. The vegetation had standards of vitality and growth completely different from Earth vegetation. If the port city of Allada hadn’t been originally constructed on a vitrified surface, thousands of laborers would have been required to slash the tendrils which would have grown each day. In fact, when the spot for Allada had been originally vitrified, it had only been done to a two-foot depth. Tendrils broke through on the third day, heaving and cracking the surface. After that experience, spaceships had hung, tail down, over the Allada site for ten days. When the molten rock had finally cooled, the experts had estimated that the black soil was vitrified to a depth of sixty feet. No plant life had broken through since that time. The electrified cables surrounding Allada constantly spit and crackled as the searching vine tips touched them.
Shane Brent went up to his room in Hostel B, shut the door wearily, listlessly pushed the News button under the wall screen and watched the news of the day with little interest as he slowly undressed. Crowds demonstrating in Asia-Block against the new nutrition laws. Project 80, two years out said to be nearing Planet K. Skirts once again to be midway between knee and hip next season. The first bachelor parenthood case comes up to decide whether a child born of the fertilization of a laboratory ovum can legally inherit. Brent frowned. Soon a clear definition of the legal rights of “Synthetics” would have to be made. He stopped suddenly as he had an idea. He decided to submit it to Frank. Why not get Inter-Federal Aid for a project to develop Synthetics to fill personnel requirements for future project flights? But would humanity agree to colonization by Synthetics? It still wasn’t clearly understood whether or not they’d breed true.
He turned off the news, took a slow shower and dressed in fresh clothes. It was a nuisance changing the insignia. He wadded up the clothes he had removed and shoved them into the disposal chute.
At five o’clock he got on the call screen and got hold of the general manager at Allada. The man recognized him immediately. “What can I do for you, Brent?”
“As soon as Hiram Lee gets off duty, send him in to see me at Hostel B.”
“I hope you don’t steal him away from us, Brent. He’s the best man we’ve got with the Harids. He doesn’t scare easy.”
Brent grinned. “I’ll try to scare him away from me, sir.”
He walked away from the screen, went into the shower room and examined the drinkmaster. It was one of the older type. No choice of brands. He set the master dial to one ounce. He pushed the gin button three times, the dry vermouth button once. He turned the stir lever and held it on for a few seconds before he turned it off. He looked in the side compartment and found no lemon, no olives, no pickled onions. That was the trouble with Central Assignment only approving the second-class places. He took the right size glass off the rack, put it under the spout and lifted it until the rim tripped the lever. The Martini poured smoothly into the glass, beading the outside of it with moisture. Down in the lobby the centralized accounting circuit buzzed and the price of the Martini was neatly stamped on his bill.
He walked back into the other room, sat in the deep chair and sipped the Martini, thinking it odd that with all the scientific experimentation in taste effects, no one had yet come up with any substitute for the delicacy and aroma of a dry Martini.
Hiram Lee arrived as he was sipping his third.
Twenty minutes later Hiram Lee stood at the windows, his lips compressed, pounding his fist into his palm in monotonous rhythm.
He turned suddenly. “I don’t know what I’m waiting for, Shane. Yes! Count me in. When do we leave?”
“Hold up there, boy. You’ve got to go to school for a while. And how about the colonization angle. Will you want to stay?”
Lee grinned. “If I could talk that little Seattle blonde into going along, three years would be a short, short trip.”
“Providing she could pass.”
“Oh, sure. I think she’d pass. But she’s too smart to tie up with me. Maybe. At least I’ll give it a try. When have I got to tell you about whether or not I want to stay on this brand new world you boys have located?”
“Let me see. Ninety-three days from now is takeoff. Thirty days would be needed to approve and train a woman. You have sixty-three days to convince this blonde of yours that you’re a very attractive guy. And then you’ll have to talk her into taking a little three-year trip and settling down in the brush with you.”
Lee looked at him curiously. “You knew all this early this afternoon and you gave me that song and dance with a straight face.”
“That’s my profession, Hiram.”
“You’re good at it, but I still have got an urge to bust you one.”
“We’ll arrange that some time. Right now I’m looking for recommendations for somebody to fill the slot of executive officer aboard the Project flight. Any ideas?”
Lee frowned. “None of those boys at Solaray will do. I can tell you that quick. They’re either slowly congealing in their own juice or they’re making too good a thing out of their job. Better hunt around in the other plantations. There’s a guy named Mosey over at Factri-grown on the other side of Allada that has a good reputation.”
“I’ll take a look. And by the way, Hiram. All this is under the hat.”
“Natürlich, mein herr. May I respectfully recommend that we embark on an evening of wine and song? I hold out little hope for the other ingredient.”
One big meal and two hours later, Shane Brent and Hiram Lee walked into the club on the strip — the club called Brownie’s.
The air was chilled, thinned and scented with the crispness of pine. The place was lighted by glowing amber disks set into the walls. It was packed with the usual type of crowd. Bug-eyed tourists trying to pretend that it was old stuff to them; hard-drinking, hard-fisted men from the plantations; neat, careful kids from the ship crews in Allada port; the odd-job drifters who had become parasites on the social structure of Allada; a big party of Allada politicos, wining and dining two inspectors from Asia-Block.
By luck they found an empty table for two not far from the dance floor. Hiram Lee was on hard liquor and Brent, feeling his limit near, had shifted to beer.
Lee said, slurring his words: “You’re smart to get over onto beer, friend. You got to drink in this climate quite a while before you pick up a good head for the stuff.” He glanced at his watch. “Floor show in ten minutes. Then you can see my blondie.”
Shane Brent felt the artificial gaiety draining out of him. He looked around at the other tables, seeing suddenly the facial lines of viciousness and stupidity and greed. He remembered his reading of history and guessed that there must have been faces just like these in the early days of the American West. California in 1849 and 1850. Easy money attracted those who had been unable to make a proper adjustment to their accustomed environment. Actually it was the result of exploitation. The Harids, with their ant culture, had put up suicidal defense until General Brayton had discovered the wave length of the beamed thought waves which directed the Harids of each colony. Science had devised stronger sending devices than the colony waves and suddenly the Harids were servants.
Each foreman, such as Hiram Lee, carried one of the wave boxes and directed his crew. Central Economics had proven that the use of Harids in the culture — picking and drying of the herbs — was cheaper than any mechanical devices which could be set up.