Chapter 2 
Chapter 2
THAT EVENING, Grimes talked things over with his wife. He said, “That fat slob Billinghurst was in to see me.”
“What have you done now?” Sonya asked him.
“Nothing,” replied Grimes, hurt.
“Then what have your captains and officers been doing?”
“Nothing, so far as I know.”
“Our Mr. Billinghurst,” she said, “doesn’t like you enough to drop in for a social chat.”
“You can say that again.” The commodore’s prominent ears reddened. “I don’t like him, either. Or any of his breed.”
“They have their uses,” she said.
Grimes looked at Sonya in a rather hostile manner. He growled, “You would say that. After all, you are an intelligence officer, even if only on the Reserve List.”
“Why rub it in?” she asked.
“I’m not rubbing anything in. I’m only making the point that customs officers and intelligence officers have a lot in common.”
“Yes, we do, I suppose. To be in either trade you have to be something of a human ferret. And the Survey Service’s Intelligence Branch has worked with the customs authorities more than once.”
“Has Billinghurst asked you to work with him?” he demanded.
“No. Of course not. He represents the Government of the Confederacy, and my Reserve Officer’s Commission is held, as well you know, in the Federation’s Survey Service.”
“You are a citizen of the Confederacy by marriage.”
“Yes, but a private citizen. As far as the Rim Worlds are concerned I’m just a civilian. Of course, if I got orders from my bosses on Earth to work with Billinghurst—just as I’ve had orders in the past to work with you—I should do just that.”
“Mphm. Well, I most sincerely hope that you don’t.”
“Suppose,” she suggested, “that you tell me what all this is about. I know you don’t like Billinghurst—but he’s only doing the job that he’s paid to do.”
“Why should the taxpayers be forced to pay for the upkeep of their natural enemies?” asked Grimes rhetorically.
“It always has been so,” she told him. “It’s just one of the prices one pays for civilization. But suppose you put me in the picture insofar as you and Mr. Billinghurst are concerned.”
“All right. As you know very well the Rim Worlds are far less permissive than Earth and the older colonies. By comparison with them, we’re practically puritanical.”
“Are we? I haven’t noticed anybody suffering agonies of repression.”
“Perhaps not. But just compare our attitude towards the commoner drugs with that of, say, Earth. On the home planet marijuana can be purchased as openly as tobacco. Here, on the Rim, it is banned. There the more potent hallucinogens can be bought by those who have a license to use them—even that Dew of Paradise they distill on Arrid. Here, they are banned. I could go on . . .”
“Don’t bother. So somebody’s been drug running, and Billinghurst thinks that it’s your boys. Right?”
“Right.”
“And he wants you to do something about it. Right?”
“Right.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“I’ve already done it. I’ve composed a this-practice-must-cease-forthwith circular, addressed to all masters and chief officers, drawing their attention to Rule No. 73 in Rim Runners’ Regulations—the instant dismissal if caught smuggling one.”
“And do you think that will be enough?” she asked.
“That’s the least of my worries,” he said.
“At times—and this is one of them—I find your attitude towards things in general rather hard to understand.” Her slender face was set in severe lines, her green eyes stared at him in what could have been accusation.
Grimes squirmed slightly. He said firmly, “I am not, repeat not, a customs officer—and for that I thank all the Odd Gods of the Galaxy. Furthermore, ever since man came down from the trees he has needed an assortment of drugs—tea, coffee, alcohol, tobacco, the juice of sacred mushrooms, the smoke from burning Indian hemp—to take the rough edge off things in general. Most—all, probably—of these things are dangerous if taken in excess. So are plenty of nondrugs. After all, you can kill yourself overeating.”
“Talking of that,” she said sweetly, “you could stand to lose a pound or three . . . or four . . . or five.”
He ignored this. “What Billinghurst is doing is interfering with the most sacred freedom of mankind.”
“Which is?”
“Freedom to go to hell your own way. The odd part is that in any culture where this freedom is an undeniable right very few people take advantage of it. But once the law, in its wisdom, says, “You must be good,” it’s a different story. You will recall that Atlantia, only a few years ago, tried to ban the consumption of alcohol. As a result nondrinkers became drinkers, moderate drinkers became heavy drinkers, and those who had been heavy drinkers drank themselves into early graves. And the rum runners made their fortunes.”
“Yes,” she said, “the rum runners made their fortunes. People like Drongo Kane, who has always ranked high on your list of pet dislikes. And now that some genius has discovered that there’s an ideal market for drugs out on the Rim there’ll be more fortunes made, and all by the dregs of humanity. Tell me, John, if you knew that Drongo Kane was among the runners would you be content to do no more than write one of those circulars that nobody ever reads anyhow?”
He grinned. “I’ll have to toss a coin before I can answer that one. Much as I dislike Drongo Kane I’d hate to be on the same side as Billinghurst!”