Nothing but wives and daughters, of course—the young men who had come to Maxima to build robots and fortunes still outnumbered the women 2.36 to 1. Any single woman who showed up to join the colony was married within a year, plain or not, usually after a hectic courtship that resembled a bidding war. Of course, there were one or two who chose to stay single, like Myrtle—but they were very few. Looks or no looks, Maxima was a marriage mart.
Of course, Dar had to admit he was biased. To him, any woman would look plain, compared to Lona.
He found himself wondering if the other husbands could possibly feel the same way about their wives.
"Two therms!"
"Two and five kwahers!"
"Two and ten!" Msimangu turned to glare at Dar. "Blast you, d'Armand! You're running the price up!"
"No, I'm buying it! Two and twelve!"
"Two and twelve?" the miner cried. "Do I hear two and fifteen?" He glanced at Msimangu.
"Not from me." The white-haired black man turned away in disgust. "I'm not that low. I'll wait for the next shipment."
"Two and fourteen?" the miner called. "Two and thirteen. I have two and twelve; who'll give me two and thirteen?"
There were several mutters, but no one called out.
"Going once! Going twice! Sold!" The miner whacked the gavel on the board. "Three kilograms of silicon to the young man in the pin-striped coverall, at two therms, twelve kwahers per!"
Msimangu shouldered through the crowd to shake a finger under Dar's nose. "Do not bid against me again, young d'Armand! I can ruin you!"
Dar lifted his chin—he had to; the old black man was six inches taller than he—and gave back glare for glare. "Would you dock us a fair chance to get started, Omar? We're not thick in the wallet; we have to pick up small lots when we can."
"Perhaps, but the gold is not small!"
"No, but it's vital."
"Then deal in retail! If a beginner like you seeks to buy gold wholesale, he will break himself!"
"One hundred fifteen kilograms of fine gold!" the miner called. "What am I bid?"
A storm of calls answered him. He sorted them out, the price leapfrogging. "Five thousand therms… six thousand… eight thousand… ten…"
"Twelve thousand therms!" Msimangu called out. "Twelve thousand therms per kilo!"
"Thirteen!" Laurentian answered, and "Fourteen!" Mulhearn called from across the room. "Fifteen!" Ngoya called. "Sixteen!" Bolwheel shouted.
"Seventeen!" Msimangu bellowed. "Seventeen therms per kilo!"
The small bidders had dropped out; now the plutocrats were getting down to serious competition. It was exciting in its way, but watching his neighbors fight made Dar nervous. He edged away toward the rim of the crowd, pulling out Lona's list and checking through it. All the items were crossed off, except for the silicon; he drew a line through that and turned away, tucking the list back for future reference. He patted the pocket where the trio of rubies lay. He really shouldn't have spent the money, but Lona would love them, if he could cut, polish, and mount them properly. Besides, they'd be worth ten times the amount he'd paid, back on Terra.
"Twenty-two and nine going once—twenty-two and nine going twice—SOLD! To the tall black gent with the white hair!"
Msimangu whooped victory, and his fellow millionaires turned away, reviling his ancestry and personal habits. Msimangu ignored them, laughing as he turned away, shouldering through his congratulating fellows. "I won the big one, at least! Come, come drink with me!"
A few accepted, though most withdrew to take their turns at the retail booth. Still laughing, Msimangu caught up with Dar at the door to the restaurant. "Come drink with us, young d'Armand! Let us rejoice, let us make a celebration!"
Dar looked up with a slow smile. "Don't mind if I do, Omar."
"Fine, fine! Then come with us!" And Msimangu plunged into the public bar.
Dar sat down at table with a half-dozen solid citizens. He noticed that Mulhearn and Bolwheel had joined the crew, and was amazed once again that people who could rage and revile one another in the bidding, could relax and talk together without the slightest rancor only five minutes later. Everyone seemed to understand that business might be business, but friendship was more important.
Much more important, out here where the shrunken sun blazed in eternal night, and your own survival depended on your neighbors'. They couldn't afford feuds on Maxima; they all had a constant, common enemy—the ever-present void. Sitting down for a drink wasn't just a celebration—it was a declaration of apology and forgiveness, a healing of wounds, and an unspoken pledge of mutual support.
He felt honored to be included, though it had become part of the pattern. From the first, he'd been invited to join in every gathering that happened. If they needed each other here, it made them all the more willing to accept the newcomer into the fold. Dar wondered if they would be so open in a hundred years, when (if!) the colony was firmly established and thriving.
"We will grow," Bolwheel maintained. He was a red-haired, jowly man of middle age, who looked fat but wasn't. "We grow already."
Neils Woltham nodded. "We all tend to have large families, somehow."
"That is half the reason we are here." Msimangu punched up another tankard. "For the room to have families."
David Mulhearn, pale and red-haired but graying, nodded. "All is rationed, on Terra—food, land, houses, what you will. Rationed, or so dear that it might as well be."
"I wouldn't call the prices low here," Jory Kimish said. He was almost as young as Dar, and newly come from Earth. "You blokes seem to have put in a good deal of time and labor. Can't rate that too low, you know."
"We do not," Msimangu assured him. "But even if you compute the cost of our houses so, young man, you will find them much less expensive than their equivalents on Terra."
"True," Bolwheel said, "but this isn't exactly the choicest location, you know."
"And what is wrong with it?" Msimangu rounded on him. "You can have as much land as you can fence, here!"
"Aye, but naught will grow on't," Mulhearn pointed out. "Yet I cannot fault the neighborhood—for nowhere else have I found neighbors of my own mindset and code."
"Nor I," Msimangu agreed, "nor I. I could not ask for more congenial company."
"When we get it," Dar pointed out. "Of course, it's worth waiting for."
"Surely there's no dearth of folk who wish to join us," Mulhearn pointed out.
Bolwheel answered with a knowing smile. "Where else can they find a reputation for their product, David? Only fifty years, and already our computers and robots are known as the best in Terran space!"
"Of course, it helps that Terran space has been reduced a bit by the DDT," Dar pointed out. .
"Only officially, young d'Armand. None seek to bar us from trading with other PEST planets—and the outermost of those, trade with the frontier. No, our robots are known wherever men use automatons."
"Well, surely it's your reputation that I came to join," Jory Kimish said, "though I'd stay for the company alone. But why is the Maximan product so much the best? You'd think Terra would have it all!"
"All but the brains," Bolwheel answered. "For don't you see, the brightest of the computerfolk saw the collapse of the DDT coming, and came out here early. The second brightest stayed till the civil war, then escaped to avoid being shot by the storm troopers, or by the loyalists; and the third brightest waited till PEST had taken all the planet, then escaped just before PEST banned emigration."
Msimangu nodded. "First, second, third—most of the best came to us."
"Nay, not all, though," Mulhearn cautioned. "There are brains on Terra still, and not all of them were made on Maxima."
"True," Msimangu agreed, "though they lose steadily of what's left, by deportation. And some of those come here."
Dar stared. "You mean PEST is deliberately trying to get rid of its bright ones?"