F. Wilson: Wheels Within Wheels

“Nobody said you didn’t only … only you could treat him with a certain amount of human dignity.” He winced at the triteness of his word.

“He’s a half-breed!”

“Then how about half the amount of dignity you’d accord a human? How’s that sound?”

Jeffers’s eyes narrowed. “Are you one of those meddlers from the capital?”

“No,” Junior said, dropping his fork into his mashed potatoes and lifting the plate. “I arrived on the planet about a week ago.”

“Then you’re not even from Jebinose!” Jeffers laughed. “You’re a foreigner!”

“Aren’t we all,” Junior remarked as he walked out the door.

The Vanek was seated on the boardwalk finishing his meal. Junior sat down beside him but put his own plate aside. He was choked with what he knew to be self-righteous anger and couldn’t eat. He tried to cool himself back to rationality.

“Is it always that way?” he asked finally.

The Vanek nodded. “Yes, but it is his store.”

“I know it’s his store,” Junior said, “but we’re going to change his attitude and I think I know just the way.”

The Vanek gave him a questioning glance.

“You’re going to take me to your tribe, or camp, or whatever it’s called and we’re going to put some pressure on Mr. Jeffers.” Junior was speaking of economic pressure, of course. Economic pressure was a household word as far as the Finch family was concerned.

And so it began. Junior had found something unexpected in the young Vanek’s attitude, had read it in the flick of a gaze, the twist of a mouth. For all their outward indifference, their detached air, the Vanek were keenly aware of the discrimination they faced daily in the Terran towns. Junior had seen through the facade and this gave him an incentive to do something about the situation.

He convinced the young Vanek to take him to the local Vanek leaders so he could present his plan.

The scheme was simplicity itself. If Jeffers would not allow a Vanek to eat in his store, then no Vanek should spend a cent in that store. Since the Vanek made up a good fifty percent of the local buying public, they could cripple Jeffers’ profits in no time.

The Vanek leaders quickly agreed to the plan and a very self-satisfied Junior Finch spent the night in a nearby field. The morning held some surprises, however, when he returned to town; for as he approached Jeffers’s store, two Vanek emerged carrying sacks of foodstuffs.

Junior had overlooked one simple fact: Jeffers’s store was the only place within a twenty-mile radius where you could buy food. He would have to think of another way to put pressure on Jeffers.

There were two options: the Vanek could either open their own store, or they could find a way to buy food from a store twenty miles away. The first was out; the Vanek were not cut out for shopkeeping.

That left buying in another town as the only solution.

Junior started walking. It took him over six hours to reach Zarico, the nearest town. As he entered the town he had an intense sensation of deja vu; it was as if he had traveled in a tremendous circle and wound up right back in Danzer. The buildings were amazingly similar to those in Danzer; there was even a general store-restaurant.

The attitudes were similar, too. Vincent Peck, the owner, allowed no Vanek to eat in his store. But Junior changed his mind … it took two hours of hard talking, a half-gallon of local wine and endless repetitions of Junior’s promise to incease sales by at least fifty percent if only he’d let the Vanek eat lunch in his store.

Peck finally agreed. He wasn’t exactly crazy about the Vanek, but he was a businessman first and increased sales meant increased profits. This was the plan: Junior would use Peck’s lorry to ferry the Vanek back and forth from Danzer for a two-week trial; if the plan turned out to be worth his while, Peck would continue to cooperate.

Apparently Peck found it very worthwhile for after the trial period he offered Junior a salary to keep on driving the lorry. Jeffers and many other Danzer citizens resented this intrusion into their affairs by an outsider, but Marvin Heber was overjoyed; he went so far as to inform the news media.

This was a mixed blessing: it resulted in the anonymous donation of a bus for transport of the Vanek from Danzer to Zarico and back, but it also heightened the local resentment toward Junior-the people of Danzer felt that the rest of the planet was laughing at them. And one night a couple of locals in their cups administered a mild beating to Junior. But there was no real harm done.

Finally, one of the legislators from the capital paid a visit to Junior and invited him to speak before the legislature on behalf of the Integration Bill. As Junior turned him down-explaining that the success of his venture in Danzer would prove the bill unnecessary-Bill Jeffers walked up and capitulated. He had tried to hold out but it was useless; he was beaten. His business could not survive without the Vanek and so they could eat lunch in his store from that day forward.

Junior and Jeffers left the legislator to his own devices while they went off to drink to harmony and higher profits in Danzer.

Next morning, Junior was found lying in the alley next to Jeffers’s store. He was dead, a Vanek ceremonial dagger implanted in his heart.

No one for a moment believed that the Vanek were responsible for the act, even when they confessed to it. No Vanek had ever been known to lie, but this instance was considered an exception, especially since they buried Junior themselves with full rights and honors, a ceremony accorded only to the wisest and most beloved of their own race. They were not killers and certainly wouldn’t kill a man they loved so. Marvin Heber came to the conclusion that the Vanek were lying out of fear and so he looked for a human agent. He found none.

And as is so often the case, the ghost of Junior Finch was tearfully used to obtain enough votes to pass the Integration Bill, the very bill he had tried to prove unnecessary.

“IBA sent out its own investigators, of course,” Old Pete said as they pulled into the Casino, “but they could uncover nothing new. Either the murderer was a human, who did a perfect cover-up job, or your father actually was killed by the Vanek-a highly unlikely possibility.

“And, as you know,” he concluded, “we left your father’s body in its grave on Jebinose. It somehow belonged there.”

Jo nodded. She had not asked for a full recounting of the events on Jebinose, but Old Pete had obviously made a careful investigation and the details had given her a fuller picture of her father’s character than she had ever got from her mother. She was glad she had asked.

Alighting from the flitter they were greeted by an elaborately costumed doorman to whom Jo was obviously a familiar figure. He bowed them into the front entrance.

The Casino consisted of a number of large rooms, each devoted to particular games of chance. Jo headed directly for the pokochess parlor. This was her favorite game, a game of chance and skill in which each player was “dealt” a king, three pawns and five other randomly selected pieces. The two players could place wagers on the outcome at any point during the course of the game. Pokochess was not very popular with the Casino because the house could make money only when a guest played the house “pro.” But the game was the current rage on Ragna and a pokochess parlor was found to be a good draw; patrons could use the Casino’s parlor for a small fee per game.

Larry Easly was sitting at one of the tables with an associate. Easly could have been a very distinguished looking man if he had wanted to be, but the nature of his profession demanded a somewhat nondescript appearance. And so he made certain that his clothes, his posture, the cut of his hair, everything about him invited anonymity. He was a detective and very, very good at his work.