Chapter 21
Sitting in the back of Wong Lee’s truck they talked.
“What did you think of the OAP meeting, sir?” asked Sanchez.
“Not much,” said Grimes frankly. “Just an occasion to blow off harmless steam under the watchful eye of the authorities.”
“You’re right, sir. And the other places?”
“I’ve seen worse on other worlds.”
“Including the encouragement to drug addiction?”
“Even that.”
“But not in the same way, sir. On other planets there are pushers—but surely they are not employed by the government. The policy here, on Liberia, is that the refugees shall become so dependent on dreamsticks and other drugs that they lack the drive to achieve full citizenship.”
“Are there any emancipists’?” asked Grimes. “Emancipists?”
“It’s a term from Australian history, Raoul. During the days when New South Wales was a penal colony the emancipists were convicts who had been granted their freedom. More than a few of them became wealthy and influential men.”
“We do have the equivalent here, sir, but there aren’t many of them. There’s Calvin McReady, who’s one of our minor grain kings and all set to become a major one. There’s Sin Fat, who owns the New Shanghai. But they regard themselves as Liberians, not as refugees, or ex-refugees. They are as money- and power-hungry as any of the native-born Establishment.”
“So it was, all too often, in New South Wales,” said Grimes. “But tell me, Raoul, why are you in the GAP? Is it only for personal reasons?”
Sanchez fell silent for a while, quietly smoking one of his long cigars.
Then, “There are more than personal reasons, sir. When I was a child I was taught the history of Liberia. After I left school—before, even—I could not help but see the disparity between the ideals of our founding fathers and what we have—despite all the lip service—now. . . .”
“Mphm. You went into an odd trade, didn’t you, for one of your political beliefs. A spaceman has to accept discipline, take orders. Once he becomes captain he has to give orders.”
“But I wanted to become a spaceman,” Sanchez said. “I want to become a real spaceman, not a ferry master. Oh, I could never stand Survey Service discipline and spit and polish, such as you were once used to—but merchant ships are run on fairly democratic lines.”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes dubiously. “Of course, sir, what would be ideal would be a little ship, with no crew, of which I was owner-master. Something on the lines of that Little Sister of yours. . . .”
“Either accumulate at least a million credits or hire yourself out as yachtmaster to a billionairess who’ll give you such a ship as a parting gift.” Grimes laughed. “I did it the second way. I certainly couldn’t have done it the first.”
“But you must know people, sir.”
“I do. Raoul. I do. Hinting, are you? Well, if all goes well I just might—only might, mind you—be able to get you a berth as a very junior officer in a deep space ship. After that it’d be up to you—getting in your deep space time, passing examinations and all the rest of it. There are no instant captains in deep space. But forget that we’re spacemen. I’m a planetary governor who’s been traveling incognito among his people. You’re my guide. Tell me about the dives we were in tonight.”
“First, sir. the Garden of Delights. It’s owned by Colonel Bardon and Estrelita O’Higgins. The manager is one Chiang Sooey. Chiang is not yet a citizen but hopes to become one. The turnover rate of entertainers is high—Chiang likes them to take their pay in dreamsticks and the like rather than in money. . . .”
“And the dreamsticks. . . . Where do they come from?”
“One of the main sources of supply used to be the ships owned by Able Enterprises but recently a dreamweed plantation was started by Eduardo Lopez. . . .”
“The Minister for Immigration?”
“The same. There was an influx of refugees from Bangla—there was some sort of Holy War there. Dreamweed comes from Bangla. The people there use it but they’re immune to its worst effects. They were recruited to work on the Lopez plantation. The occasional leaves they smoke or chew will not reduce their capacity for hard work.”
“And the other people, the customers, who get hooked have to work like bastards to feed their habit.”
“Yes. And burn themselves out. And now, the Texas Whorehouse. Owned by a syndicate of Bardon’s officers. Managed by Lyman Cartwell, of New Dallas origin. Like Chiang Sooey, not yet a citizen but hopeful of becoming one. It’s not at all likely, he’s become a dreamstick addict himself.”
“I take it that the clipjoints—how much do I owe you, by the way?—that we didn’t patronize are all very much the same insofar as ownership is concerned.”
“With the exception of the New Shanghai, of course. And I’ll let you have a detailed accounting as soon as possible, sir.”
“Do that. Raoul.”
“To date, sir. you’ve just seen the glamorous—glamorous, ha, ha!—side of the exploitation of the refugees. You’ve yet to see the conditions on the farms and plantations—the living quarters, the company stores . . .”
“It’s time,” said Grimes, “that you and I took Fat Susie out for an airing. A leisurely tour of my domain. . . .”
“I’d like that, sir.”
Obviously the van was slowing.
It stopped and the rear door slid open.
Grimes and Sanchez jumped down to the ground, found themselves standing by the tradesmen’s entrance of the Residence. Su Lin was waiting for them there. After a brief word of greeting she led them inside the building and through a maze of passageways to the Governor’s quarters. She produced the inevitable tea. After this had been sipped she brought out a bottle of solvent and, applying it with gentle hands, removed Grimes’s false facial hair. Sanchez attended himself to the stripping of his own disguise.
The pilot said good night and departed for his accommodation. The girl stayed with Grimes and insisted on preparing him for bed.
She did not offer to share his couch with him.