Walter Miller - Dark Benediction

“I assure you, you are all going to jail.”

Madame d’Annecy threw back her head and laughed heartily. She said something in French to the man at the door, then smiled at the unhappy engineer. “What law prevails here, M’sieur?”

“UCOJE does. Uniform Code of Justice, Extraterrestrial. It’s a semi-military—“

“U.N.-based, I believe?”

“Certainly.”

“Now I know little of thees matters, but my attorneys would be delighted, I am certain, if you can tell me: which articles of thees UCOJE is to be used for inducing us to be incarcerated?”

“Why… Uh…” Suds scratched nervously at one corner of his moustache. He glanced at the man with the gun. He gazed forlornly at the sight draft.

“Exactly!” Mme. d’Annecy said brightly. “There have been no women to speak of on the moon since the unfortunate predicament of les enfants perdus. The moon-born grotesque ones. How could they think to pass laws against thees—thees ancien establishment, thees maison intime —when there are no women, eh M’sieur?”

“But you falsified your papers to get clearance. You must have.”

“But no. Our clearance is ‘free nation,’ not ‘world federal.’ We are an entertainment troupe, and my government’s officials are most lenient in defining ‘entertainment.’ Chacun a son gout, eh?”

Suds sat breathing heavily. “I can place this ship off limits.”

“If you can do dat, if the men do not come”—she shrugged eloquently and spread her hands—“then we will simply move on to another project. There are plenty of others. But do you think thees putting us off limits will make you very popular with your men?”

“I’m not trying to win a popularity contest,” Suds wheezed. “I’m trying to finish the last twelve miles of this line before sundown. You’ve got to get out of here before there’s a complete work stoppage.”

“Thees project. It is important? Of an urgent nature?”

“There’s a new uranium mine in the crater we’re building toward. There’s a colony there without an independent ecology. It has to be supplied from Copernicus. Right now, they’re shooting supplies to them by rocket missile. It’s too far to run surface freight without trolley service—or reactor-powered vehicles the size of battleships and expensive. We don’t have the facilities to run a fleet of self-powered wagons that far.”

“Can they not run on diesel, perhaps?”

“If they carry the oxygen to burn the diesel with, and if everybody in Copernicus agrees to stop breathing the stuff.”

“Embarras de choix. I see.”

“It’s essential that the line be finished before nightfall. If it isn’t, that mine colony will have to be shipped back to Copernicus. They can’t keep on supplying it by bird. And they can’t move out any ore until the trolley is ready to run.”

Mme. d’Annecy nodded thoughtfully. “We wish to make the cordial entente with the lunar workers,” she murmured. “We do not wish to cause the bouleversement— the disruption. Let us then negotiate, M’sieur.”

“I’m not making any deals with you, lady.”

“Ah, but such a hard position you take! I was but intending to suggest that you furnish us a copy of your camp’s duty roster. If you will do that, Henri will not permit anyone to visit us if he is—how you say?—goofing off. Is it not that simple?”

“I will not be a party to robbery!”

“How is it robbery?”

“Twelve hundred dollars! Pay for two day-hitches. Lunar days. Nearly two months. And you’re probably planning to fleece them more than once.”

“A bon marche! Our expenses are terrific. Believe me, we expect no profit from this first trip.”

“First trip and last trip,” Suds grumbled.

“And who has complained about the price? No one so far excepting M’sieur. Look at it thus; it is an investment.” She slid one of the forms across the table. “Please to read it, M’sieur.”

Suds studied the paper for a moment and began to frown. “ Les Folies Lunaires, Incorporated… a North African corporation… in consideration of the sum of one hundred dollars in hand paid by—who?—Howard Beasley!—aforesaid corporation sells and grants to Howard Beasley… one share of common stock!”

“M’sieur! Compose yourself! It is no fraud. Everybody gets a share of stock. It comes out of the twelve hundred. Who knows? Perhaps after a few trips, there will even be dividends. M’sieur? But you look positively ill! Henri, bring brandy for the gentleman.”

“So!” he grated. “That’s the way it goes, is it? Implicate everybody—nobody squawks.”

“But certainly. It is for our own protection, to be sure, but it is really stock.”

“Blackmail.”

“But no, M’sieur. All is legal.”

Henri brought a plastic cup and handed it to him; Suds shook his head.

“Take it. M’sieur. It is real brandy. We could bring only a few bottles, but there is sufficient pure alcohol for the mixing of cocktails.”

The small compartment was filled with the delicate perfume of the liquor; Brodanovitch glanced longingly at the plastic cup.

“It is seventy-year-old Courvoisier, M’sieur. Very pleasant.”

Suds took it reluctantly, dipped it toward Mme. d’Annecy in self-conscious toast, and drained it. He acquired a startled expression; he clucked his tongue experimentally and breathed slowly through his nose.

“Good Lord!” he murmured absently.

Mme. d’Annecy chuckled. “M’sieur has forgotten the little pleasures. It was a shame to gulp it so. Encore, Henri. And one for myself, I think. Take time to enjoy this one, M’sieur.” She studied him for a time while Henri was absent. She shook her head and began putting the forms away, leaving out the sight draft and stock agreement which she pushed toward him, raising one inquisitive brow. He gazed expressionlessly at them. Henri returned with the brandy; Madame questioned him in French. He seemed insistently negative for a time, but then seemed to give grudging assent. “ Bien!” she said, and turned to Brodanovitch: “M’sieur, it will be necessary only for you to purchase the share of stock. Forget the fee.”

“What?” Suds blinked in confusion.

“I said—” The opening of the hatch interrupted her thought. A dazzling brunette in a filmy yellow dress bounced into the compartment, bringing with her a breath of perfume. Suds looked at her and emitted a loud guttural cluck. A kind of glazed incredulity kneaded his face into a mask of shocked granite wearing a supercilious moustache. The girl ignored his presence and bent over the table to chat excitedly in French with Mme. d’Annecy. Suds’s eyes seemed to find a mind and will of their own; involuntarily they contemplated the details of her architecture, and found manifest fascination in the way she relieved an itch at the back of one trim calf by rubbing it vigorously with the instep of her other foot while she leaned over the desk and bounced lightly on tiptoe as she spoke.

“M’sieur Brodanovitch, the young lady wishes to know—M’sieur Brodanovitch?—M’sieur!”

“What—? Oh!” Suds straightened and rubbed his eyes. “Yes?”

“One of your young men has asked Giselle out for a walk. We have pressure suits, of course. But is it safe to promenade about this area?” She paused. “M’sieur, please!”

“What?” Suds shook his head. He tore his eyes away from the yellow dress and glanced at a head suddenly thrust in through the hatch. The head belonged to Relke. It saw Brodanovitch and withdrew in haste, but Suds made no sign of recognition. He blinked at Madame again.

“M’sieur, is it safe?”