Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

Terry shot and shot again. “One curd of a place for a pacifist,” he snarled.

It occurred to him that the other’s gun had fallen silent. He darted a look at the sergeant, and then turned his face away quickly.

The charge was slowing as the dismounted enemy plowed up the steepness of the brief hill. Those who had fallen earlier hindered the way. Two got nearly to the summit only to fall over, shattered by a quick double burst from the automatic weapon of the defending Earthman.

And suddenly it was over for the nonce. The charge broke. The warriors turned and fled after the few with muskets had emptied them at the hilltop.

Terry Stevens, alone, tried to avoid looking at his companion. He ejected the clip from his gun, looked at it. He had exactly three rounds left. He reached over and took the sergeant’s gun and checked the clip. It was empty.

He took a deep breath. “Okay, Joe,” he muttered. “It’s up to you now. The ultimate right flank is about to fold.”

There was a roar above and he stared up, startled.

It was Dick Hawkins in his biplane. He waved over the edge of the open cockpit.

Terry Stevens waved back. “I wish the hell I was up there with you, you funker,” he growled in sour humor. He could hear the musketmen blasting away at the aircraft. He waved his fellow Earthman away. “Get out of here, you cloddy! One of them will wing you with one of those blunderbusses,” he yelled meaninglessly.

Hawkins was heading back toward the knot of men that were slowly shooting their way up the hillside, their magnified fire power, compared to that of the foe, clearing the way before.

Down in the valley, Barry Watson’s men were still grinding forward. From Stevens’ position, the whole field of action clearly visible, he could see the enemy forces beginning to pile up in the defile through which they had entered the valley during the week. Many of their horses were already in confusion, attempting retreat, but running into a mess of supply wagons, still attempting to enter by the narrow way.

Stevens grunted to himself. “Barry’s made it. Trouble is, it’s going to take the gang up here a long time to realize it.” He poked his weapon over the side of the depression carefully. The nomads were going to be mustering for another rush soon. They must have noted, during the last one, how abruptly the fire had fallen off. They might even suspect that there was now but one man holding out here.

Joe Chessman and Reif, blowing from the ascent, stared down into the crater where Stevens and the sergeant had held out for so long. Both men had been mutilated to the point of being unrecognizable.

Reif said, “He was not a warrior by choice. He fought well for one who was not a warrior.”

Chessman looked at him. He looked back at the naked bodies and growled, “I suspect the campaign was won here. This was the ultimate crucial point.”

Natt Roberts came slogging up, for once no longer the dandy. His uniform was soaked through with perspiration and his face was grimy and tired, blood and mud were on his usually natty boots. He had heard Chessman’s words.

Roberts looked down at the body of his companion and muttered, “Now the question is, was it worth it?”

Chessman looked at him coldly.

Natalie Wieliczka was saying, “We’re going to have to have at least one sizeable hospital in each city of over a hundred thousand, and at least a clinic in the smaller towns.”

Michael Dean looked at her wryly. He was seated at a heavy desk, littered with reports, graphs and receipts and was dressed in the colorful silks and furs of the highest class Genoese; he looked nothing so much as the middle years Henry the Eighth.

He grumbled, “Why come to me? I’m not the treasurer of this continent. Approach the governments involved. So you’ve got to the point where you need more hospitals. Fine, let them stick a new tax on the peasantry to finance them.”

Natalie said patiently, though wearily, “You know better than that, Mike. Taxes are leveled on wealth, not poverty.”

Mike Dean snorted. He was fond of Natalie Wieliczka, as everybody from the Pedagogue was fond of her, but of late she had been getting under his skin with her everlasting nagging for funds. He snorted. “Tell that to the peasants and the slums in town.”

“That the poor don’t pay taxes?” She raised her eyebrows. “They go through the motions, perhaps, but it’s an optical illusion. The powers that be—such as yourself—would like the poor to think that taxes were a big issue they had to be concerned about. Get them all steamed up worrying about taxes, so that their real troubles will be ignored.”

“You sound like a rabble rouser,” Mike Dean chuckled.

But she went on, doggedly. “Suppose it’s possible for a peasant or unskilled laborer, to get by on fifty crowns a day. Fine, you pay him one hundred crowns, and then tax him fifty. He thinks he’s paying taxes and gets all in a dither about their magnitude, but in actuality if taxes went up another ten crowns a day, you boys in the saddle would have to raise his pay. If his cost of living fell off, the governments you keep in power would undoubtedly raise his taxes to that extent. On an average, he gets a living wage, just enough to get by on, no more, no less, so taxes don’t really interest him.”

Mike Dean said dryly, “Save me your economics, Natalie. The fact of the matter is, Lou and I are in no position to finance a project as big as you’re talking about. We over-expanded, especially in textiles. Introducing the cotton gin was fine but things got steam rolling and before we knew it, we started producing cloth twice as fast as we can sell it. Everybody on this continent, who can afford a wardrobe, has a closet full of clothes.”

Natalie said impatiently, “Introduce fashion.”

“What?” He scowled at her.

She said, “I was joking, I suppose. But I’m surprised you haven’t already. Between you and Amschel Mayer, you’ve introduced just about every other gimmick that…”

“Wait a minute,” Dean said. “How do you mean, introduce fashion?”

“Fashion, fashion. Styles. So every woman on this continent has already got a closet full of clothes your textile products? Fine. Switch styles on them, drop the hemline five inches. Play it up in your publications. Have some of the big name theatrical people wear them. Introduce some fashion magazines. Make them feel as though they’re underprivileged if they can’t get a complete new wardrobe of the new styles.”

Dean was staring at her. “Zen! I think you’re right!”

Natalie muttered, “Forgive me, for I know not what I do.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, coming to her feet. She looked down at him and far in the back of her eyes there was an element of contempt. “Mike, we came here to develop this world, not just to exploit it.”

He looked up at her, defensively. “Sometimes it’s hard to figure out where one starts and the other ends.”

“In this particular case, it isn’t. My medical universities are at last beginning to turn out competent practitioners. I need those hospitals, Mike.”

“All right, all right, I’ll talk it over with Louis. Listen, Natalie, how about you taking a week or so off and getting this fashion thing going for us? Neither Louis nor I know…”

She snorted in fine disgust. “Some chance, you miserable cloddy. I can just see myself. Already I feel like a traitor to my sex.”

Mike Dean chuckled sourly. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”

A secretary entered. “The Honorable Rosetti.”

Dean said, “Oh good. Show him in, Lange.”

“At once, Honorable Dean.” Lange left.

Natalie looked after the underling. “What’s he cringing about?”