“Charlie Wraggon, I want ya ta meet Hank Tauber,” Barnard said as he gestured for his companion to slide into the booth, where Wraggon already sat nursing a drink.
“Hey! How ’bout a bottle o’ Spacefarer’s over here!” Barnard hollered at the bartender.
“Come get it yourself, pal,” the bartender answered, placing a bottle and two glasses on the bar. “You and your friend’ve been in here enough by now to know we don’t provide service this time of day. And I want cash this time, or you don’t get the booze! Your account’s screwed up my payments the last three times!”
Barnard turned to look at Wraggon, who nodded in disgust. “What do you expect in a world run by robbies and computers?” Wraggon grumbled.
“I’ll take care of it,” Tauber said, handing Barnard his universal transaction card.
“Thanks,” Barnard said before walking to the bar. “Here, friend,” he said with sarcasm, sliding the card across the counter. “‘Milk of Human Kindness.’ Hah! When ya gonna give this bar a decent name? The one ya got’s a lie. You’re like everybody else in this world. All ya care about’s what the damn computers tell ya!”
“Whatever you say, pal,” the bartender sighed after charging Tauber’s account. He shook his head in amusement as he replaced the card on the bar top. Barnard shot an unpleasant gesture at the bartender’s back, dropped the card into his pocket and picked up the bottle and glasses.
“Now let’s get down ta some serious drinkin’,” he said, depositing the bottle and glasses on the table as he slipped into the booth next to Tauber.
“My card, please,” Tauber said quietly.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Barnard took the card from his pocket and handed it back to the other man. Then he poured each of them a drink.
Tauber was 32 years old, about six feet tall and 180 pounds of muscle. His light brown hair framed a strong, almost arrogant face dominated by cold, blue eyes. Wraggon regarded him uneasily. Even before he spoke, the man radiated a quiet—and vaguely threatening—power.
“I figured you two oughtta meet,” Barnard said. “The way Hank talks, and the way you talk, you guys oughtta really hit it off. Hank here was in the Merchant Fleet for about.... Eight years, wasn’t it, Hank?”
Tauber nodded and sipped some of his whiskey.
“Yeah,” Barnard continued. “Eight years. Anyway, last week they went and threw ’im out! Told ’im he oughtta quit ‘for the good of the service.’”
Tauber’s jaw muscles tightened, but he said nothing.
“So did you do it?” Wraggon asked Tauber after a moment of silence. “Did you quit?”
Tauber hesitated before answering. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Wasn’t going to at first, but then I realized there wasn’t much point in staying with the service anymore. Every time I tried to do something, the higher-ups would block me. Sometimes, I just went ahead and did what I wanted without their okay. Usually just small stuff. Cutting corners on paper work—that sort of thing.” He paused, his eyes gauging Wraggon’s reactions. “They never said much about it. But last week, they decided to give me a hard time.” He shrugged. “I said the wrong thing to some of the wrong people. So they put me down for gross insubordination.”
Wraggon nodded appreciatively. He knew what it felt like to have numbskulls telling you what to do when you knew more than they did.
“Tell Charlie about the deal you set up in the Asteroid Belt,” Barnard urged, downing his drink and then pouring himself another.
Wraggon looked at Tauber expectantly, but the other man remained silent.
“C’mon, Hank,” Barnard cajoled. “I told you, Charlie here’s okay.”
“Well,” Tauber began hesitantly, “I guess it doesn’t really matter if I tell you. It’s all history now, anyway.”
He took another sip of his drink before continuing. “What happened was, I got tired of the way the rock farmers were treating the guys in the merchant crews. Just like robbies. Seemed to me the bowl-squatters needed a lesson—a little demonstration of the fact that they couldn’t just order us around. That’s when I got this idea: Hold back some of the colonists’ supplies and make ’em pay the crew a bonus to get the stuff back.”
“Terrific idea, ain’t it?” Barnard said to Wraggon, nudging him with an elbow.
“So what happened?” Wraggon asked, ignoring Barnard.
“Fleet didn’t think it was such a good idea,” Tauber said. “‘A violation both of Fleet’s contracts and of the Merchanters Code of Ethics.’ That’s what they told me nine months ago when I went through channels before my last run. And at first I bought that garbage.” Tauber shook his head and sipped his drink. “Anyway, when I was up there last time—I don’t know. I just decided to go ahead and do it. I was the senior merchanter on the run, so it was easy to get the others to go along. Hell, they wanted to show those rock farmers up as much as I did! Anyhow, we held out some of the supplies and got a nice bonus for ourselves in colonial trade goods. Even got some of the newest molecular computer components.”
“Hey,” Wraggon interjected, “those things are hard to get! The CDN has top priority. MECs are kind of expensive, too. We use ’em to make some of the advanced experimental robbies at the plant, and we’re always having trouble getting enough of ’em.”
“What are MECs?” Barnard asked, looking confused.
“Molecular electronic components,” Wraggon said unceremoniously.
“The point is,” Tauber resumed, “by time we got back to Earth, the rock farmers had filed a complaint with Fleet. That’s when they called me in. After that, they turned me into a desk pilot.”
“You didn’t expect the colonists to file a complaint?” asked Wraggon.
Tauber shook his head. “No. You see, the rock farmers can’t survive without the supply ships. We know it, and we assumed they knew it. They can’t afford to alienate Fleet. So I told them that we were implementing a new Fleet policy. Any sensible people would be more worried about offending Fleet than about losing a little in trade goods. But then rock farmers aren’t very bright. After all, their ancestors were Earth’s failures and rejects. I should’ve known they’d be too thick to realize how much trouble they’d be in if I was leveling about Fleet policy.”
“Howdaya like that, Charlie?” Barnard yelped. “They’re too dumb to know when they’re in trouble, but they go around lording it over us merchanters. They’re so damned used to ordering robbies around. Makes ’em think they’re better’n we are. And they get away with it. It’s just like you been sayin’. The robbies are lettin’ the dummies and the weaklings have too much power!”
“That’s for sure!” Wraggon put in as he drained his glass and reached for the bottle.
“Is that what you think?” Tauber asked in a controlled, low-pitched voice.
“Damn right! Don’t you?”
Tauber looked thoughtful for a moment as Barnard refilled the ex-merchanter’s glass.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Tauber finally answered. “Never really thought of it quite that way, but maybe you’re right. There’s more to it, though. Has to be. This whole country—the whole world—depends on robots and computers. Just like you said before. They’re kind of the foundation of the power structure that runs things these days.”
“Yeah?” said Wraggon. He had the feeling that there was more on Tauber’s mind.
“I don’t know for sure. Just seems to me that superior people should be able to find some way of changing that—or at least a way of turning it to our own advantage.”
Wraggon looked closely at Tauber. The former merchanter’s forehead was creased in concentration. Like he’s trying to come up with some sort of plan, Wraggon mused.
Wraggon’s thoughts were cut short as Barnard lifted his glass in a toast.
“Down with the robbies!” the big man said.
Wraggon and Tauber glanced at Barnard, then at each other, and smiled indulgently.
“Down with the robbies!” they chimed in as they clinked glasses.