The VMR Theory (v1.1) Read Free Page A

refuse my kind offer. You disdain my kind offer.” He raised his voice. “You perhaps don’t like our beer, senhor?” Several persons in the vicinity began eyeing me.
    “Well, it’s not that I don’t like beer—”
    “Then you will drink!” He raised his fist. “To Brasilia Nuevo!”
    The crowd repeated it. Like a lot of colonial worlds, Brasilia Nuevo would be severely underpopulated if they made potential immigrants pass intelligence tests. It’s also one of those places where Diogenes would have been well-advised to ditch his lamp and walk around with a floodlight chained to his wrist. Smiling cordially, I drank.
    Discovering I was allergic to something or other in the beer, I promptly threw up. I gather it would have been safer to spit on the local flag.
    Next to Detroit, Newark, and Washington, D.C., Brasilia Nuevo is the most heavily armed society in the galaxy, and people here have the habit of firing guns in the air to celebrate special occasions like birthdays, funerals, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Fortunately, the police arrived within four or five minutes to form a human wall and escort me off into protective custody.
    Unfortunately, my stock plummeted when they found Catarina’s spray paint in my pocket. Rio’s hoosegow proved to be less than desirable; having been in several jails since becoming acquainted with Catarina, I consider myself something of a connoisseur. The local vermin weren’t nearly as cute as the rats you find most places, and the little red eyes glaring out at me made me feel unwelcome. Catarina appeared about an hour later.
    “Is this one of those good news, bad news sorts of things?” I asked.
    She nodded.
    “What’s it going to cost to get me out of here?”
    “That’s the bad news, I’m afraid. One of the people you threw up on was an alderman. Also, the locals have a well-developed and possibly well-deserved inferiority complex. The local beer is about the only thing they have to be proud of, so it assumes religious significance in the local culture.”
    She paused to allow me to digest this. Colonial planets tend to be provincial. On many of them, drinking beer is the most popular form of recreational activity. On some of them, it’s the only form of activity.
    “After the police took you away, the crowd in the bar formed themselves up into a lynch mob.” She shrugged. “I bought a few rounds, so it’s likely to be three or four days before they navigate from there to here, but I don’t think the municipal government is going to let me bail you out.”
    “Hmmm,” I said.
    She looked around my cell. “The place could use some wallpaper. Lots of company?”
    “The constabulary mentioned that they like to nibble on your toes if you fall asleep, but otherwise they’re fairly harmless.” I asked hesitantly, “What was the good news?”
    “Lydia and I followed you out, and after she finished chortling, I talked her out of court-martialing you. She offered her good offices in getting you sprung, although she recalled both of us to active duty and made me promise to keelhaul you if you act up again. She says we can tell our crew everything except Dr. Blok. Would you consider reconsidering?”
    “I assume you’ve already briefed and polled our shipmates. How many of them voted to come along?”
    “All of them, although Wyma Jean’s cat deserted.”
    I exploded. “They all want to come? For heaven’s sake, what a bunch of idiots! Of course, they’d have to be to work for us.”
    “True. Most spacers don’t like to work for people with communicable diseases, like difficulty with cash flow. Anyway, we’ve already received an offer through the Macdonald consulate, and Bunkie jacked them up to twice standard rates in real money, half in advance. We can sign the contract and start loading whenever you want.”
    “Okay. When can I get out of here?”
    Catarina pulled a chocolate bar out of her purse and handed it to me through the bars. “You’ll be out in no