Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

Dean shrugged. “It’s an attitude you develop when you’ve got possibly three hundred crowns to your name.”

She frowned at him. “I hope you don’t encourage it. Wasn’t the theory that on Genoa we were going to advance by utilizing man’s freedoms? Plekhanov and Chessman are the advocates of the iron fist.”

He shrugged again, uncomfortably. “You don’t have to encourage it. It comes automatically.” He stood as Louis Rosetti entered the room.

Rosetti, one of the older of the Pedagogue’s complement, smiled at Natalie. “Nice to see you, Doc. We don’t get together often enough.”

“Hello, Louis,” she said wanly. “Not much time for social life.”

Dean said, “It’s not as nice as all that to see her. She’s trying to shake us down for enough to pay off this city-state’s national debt.”

Rosetti looked at her. “Why don’t you get after Mayer and Kennedy for a change? Didn’t Mike tell you we were hurting?”

“It wouldn’t be a change, Louis. I’m doing the same on their continent as I am here. If anything, my program is somewhat ahead over there.”

Dean said, “What’s up, Louis? I thought you were working on that series of distilleries.”

“Distilleries!” Natalie said.

Mike Dean looked at her impatiently. “What’s wrong with distilleries? It’s not as though we’re introducing alcohol. They’ve always had wine here.”

She shook her head. “I suppose it’s none of my affair. It seems to me, though, that we could first devote a few factories to medicinal products before getting around to stronger guzzle.”

Louis Rosetti, who was dressed in much the same manner as his colleague, made a motion toward the next room with his head. “Presbyter Doul is out there.”

“Who?”

“Doul, the Temple monk. He’s taking a dim view of our production of rum and vodka.”

“Is there a back way out of here?” Natalie said. “I’m having enough trouble with the Temple without tangling with any of them ranking as high as Presbyter.”

Mike Dean led her to a rear door, then said to Rosetti with a sigh, “Show him in, Louis. We’re going to have to play this carefully. Anybody as high in the hierarchy as this is not flat.”

Louis Rosetti went back to the anteroom to return with a thin-faced, fox-like individual dressed in the dark robes of a Temple monk, but beneath them the rich garb of an upper-class Genoese of the highest income bracket.

Mike Dean went through the motions involved in a visit of such a dignitary, winding up with Presbyter Doul in the room’s most comfortable chair.

The newcomer eyed him thoughtfully, as Dean returned to his desk, and Louis Rosetti found a seat of his own. The two Earthmen were wary.

Doul said, “You adapt quickly and well to our ways, my son.”

Dean said carefully, “But your ways are our ways, Your Holiness.”

The Temple hierarch said, “I wonder. It was first widely thought that you came from Bari, on the eastern continent, but upon inquiry to our associate Temple there, it seems as though on their part they were of the opinion that you and your equal numbers on the eastern continent had come from here.”

“Our equal numbers?” Rosetti said cautiously. The presbyter looked at him. “Yes, such as Honorable Mayer and his associates.”

“Our connections with Amschel Mayer are on a business level,” Dean said.

“So I understand. Very profitably so, but perhaps on other levels as well. Levels not quite clear to myself and my holy brothers of the Temple.”

Dean shook his head, as though lacking understanding. He was on delicate ground now.

The other shrugged thin shoulders. “However, your origins are not of present concern.” He paused. “Perhaps you are aware of the fact that my position involves the holy product of the vine, that I administer the holy production and distribution of this gift of the Supreme.”

Louis Rosetti nodded. “We have been so informed, Your Holiness. In fact, if I understand correctly, your family has had this, ah, monopoly for at least a century. Your position is hereditary.”

The Temple hierarch’s eyes had narrowed again. “Do you see fit to criticize the method by which the Temple administers the holy gift of wine?”

Rosetti held up his hands, as though in horror. “Certainly not, Your Holiness.”

“Very well. Then let this be understood. These new products you have introduced”—he made a face of disgust—“what are their names? Rum, vodka, gin, whiskey. All of them vile imitations of the holy product of the vine, gift of the Supreme to be used in sacred ceremony and only during selected holy days.”

Mike Dean said, “But Your Holiness, these distilled products are not imitations of wine, they are new, ah, discoveries. Wine is, admittedly, the monopoly of the Temple. We would not dream of, ah, attempting to intrude on your, ah, income in this field. But our distilled products, which, as you know, have been received with enthusiasm…”

The presbyter cut him off by banging his fist against the arm of his chair. “Enthusiasm indeed! These vile brews are consumed night and day, every day, by all who can afford them! My secretaries estimate that literally millions are flowing into your coffers.”

Dean tried to placate him. “Your Holiness, it is true that in the past the peasants and unskilled workers were issued wine only on special religious holidays. But the aristocracy and the other better-to-do elements of society, including Temple personnel, were free to drink on any occasion.”

The other glared. “Do you find free to criticize our institutions? Is it not well known that those whom the Supreme has seen fit to place in high position have such heavy burdens upon their shoulders that it is needful for them to seek peace by resort to the holy product of the grape?”

Dean held up a hand, placatingly. “Your Holiness, it is not the desire of myself and my business associates to intrude on the Temple.”

“Intrude! My revenues have been cut in half! And what is this new disgusting beverage, ale, so cheap that the most poverty stricken can afford to indulge in it and do so even on feast days, holy days, when wine is traditional?”

Rosetti cleared his throat. “That was the point, Your Holiness. The poor also need their release from their daily pressures. Ale can provide it, at little cost.”

“At my expense! That is, of course, at the expense of the Temple.”

Dean said, gently, “Your Holiness, it is not our desire to antagonize you.” He picked up a quill, dipped it into his ink pot, wrote rapidly on a piece of paper. “Would it help if I made a contribution of…of one million crowns to your, ah, personal account as Presbyter in charge of administering the production and distribution of the, ah, holy product of the vine?”

“One…million…crowns?”

Dean handed him the check.

The Temple father frowned at it. “What is this?”

“A new institution, Your Holiness. If you will present that at any of our recently established banking houses, it will be honored.”

Doul scowled at the paper. “I have heard mention of this new institution. And you say this is in value a million crowns?”

“Gold crowns, Your Holiness. A contribution made in recognition of your unfailing labors on behalf of the Temple.” Dean found it impossible to keep an edge of sarcasm from his voice.

The other’s eyes had narrowed again. He began to say something, but then closed his thin lips to a tight line. He came to his feet. “Very well, my sons.” He looked from one of the Earthmen to the other. “Undoubtedly, some meditation on the issues involved is in order.”

Dean and Rosetti stood as well. In great ceremony, they saw their visitor to the door.