The Merchant's War Read Free Page A

the Marine guards, just weeks before, had got a little too much pop-skull into them and flashed eye-resonating commercials at three of the natives with their hand weapons. The Veenies were not amused, and we’d had to put the Marines under house arrest for deportation. They weren’t present now, of course; the eleven o’clock briefing was only for us twenty-five or so seniors. I made sure there was a place next to me when Mitzi came in, late as usual; she glanced at Hay Lopez, sulking by the window, then shrugged and sat down to join the conversation.
    “Morning, Mitzi,” grunted the Protocol Chief, just in front of us, and went right on: “I used to have a Puff Adder, too, but pumping with your hands that way you can’t get the acceleration—”
    “You can if you put the muscle in it, Roger,” I told him. “And, see, half the time you’re stuck in traffic anyway, right? So one hand’s plenty for propulsion. You’ve got the other free for, well, signaling or something.”
    “Signaling,” he said, staring at me. “How long have you been driving, Tenny?” And the Chief Code Clerk leaned past Mitzi to put in: “You ought to try a Viper, with that lightweight direct drive. No pedals, just put your foot down on the roadway and push. Talk about get-up-and-go!”
    Roger looked at her scornfully. “Yeah, and what about braking? You can fracture your leg in an emergency stop. No, I say the foot pedal and chain drive is the only way to go—” His expression changed. “Here they come,” he grunted, and turned around to face front as the heavyweights came in.
    The Ambassador is a really imposing man, Media back on Earth, with that pepper-and-salt curly hair and that solid, humorous, dark-complected face. He wasn’t from our Agency, as it happened—the big ones took turns naming the top people, and it hadn’t been our turn —but I could respect him as a craftsman. And he knew how to run a meeting. First order of business was the Political Officer, fluttering anxiously over one more of the crises that plagued his days. “We’ve had another note from the Veenies,” he said, wringing his hands. “It’s about Hyperion. They claim we’re violating basic human rights by not allowing the gas miners freedom to choose their own communications media—you know what that means.”
    We did, and there were instant mutters of “What nerve!”
    “Typical Veenie arrogance!” The helium-3 miners on the moon Hyperion only amounted to about five thousand people, and as a market they’d never be missed. But it was a matter of principle to keep them well supplied with advertising—one Venus in the Solar System was enough.
    The Ambassador was having none of it. “Reject the note,” he rapped frostily. “It’s none of their damned business, and you shouldn’t have let them hand it to you in the first place, Howard.”
    “But how could I know until I read it?” wailed the Political Officer, and the Ambassador gave him the I’ll-see-you-later look before relaxing into a smile.
    “As you all know,” he said, “the Earth ship has been orbiting for ten days now, should be sending the shuttle down here any time. I’ve been in touch with the captain, and there’s good news and bad. The good news is they’ve got some fine stuff for us—a troop of ethnic dancers, disco and Black Bottom, as cultural exchange, Mitzi, you’ll be in charge of them, of course. They’ve also got ten metric tons of supplies—Coffiest, ReelMeet, tapes of the latest commercials, all the goodies you’ve all been waiting for!” General expressions of joy and satisfaction. I took the opportunity to reach out for Mitzi’s hand, and she didn’t withdraw it. The Ambassador went on: “That’s the good news. The bad news is, as you all know, when the shuttle takes off she’ll be taking with her one of our favorite members of our happy family here. We’ll say good-by to him in a better way the night before he leaves —but meanwhile,