Frederik Pohl - Jem

The driver was a Kuwaiti, apparently a translator, because he greeted Dulla in flawless Urdu. “Would you like a lift?” he called. “Jump in!”

“You are very courteous,” smiled Dulla. “Indeed, it is a little warm for strolling today.” But it was not courtesy at all, he fumed internally, it was only more of their damnable arrogance! Ahmed Dulla was quite sure that he was the only person on Jem whose native language was Urdu, and here the Greasies had made sure they had someone who could speak to him! As though he himself were not already proficient in four other languages!

The time would come, he promised himself, when he would humble the ostentatious swine. So he rode up over the gullied hills toward the Greasy camp, chatting amiably with the Kuwaiti, remarking politely on the fine appearance of their camp, his face smiling and his heart swelling with rage.

The official host for the meeting was named Chesley Pontrefact, London-born but not of native roots that went many generations back. His skin was purplish brown and his hair white wool. Coded tactran messages had given Dulla a good deal of background on every member of the Greasy expeditions, as well as the Fats, and he knew that Pontrefact was an air vice-marshal and nominal commander of the Greasy expedition. But he also knew that real power belonged to one of the civilians from Saudi Arabia.

Pontrefact bustled about the long conference table (wood! shipped all the way from Earth!) offering drinks and smokes. “Brandy do you, Dr. Dalehouse?” he inquired solicitously. “And perhaps a Coca-Cola for you, sir? I’m afraid we don’t have orange juice, but at least there’s ice.”

“Nothing, please,” said Dulla, seething. Ice! “I suggest we begin our meeting, if that is convenient.”

“Certainly, Dr. Dulla.” Pontrefact sat down heavily at the head of the table and glanced inquiringly around. “Mind if I take the chair, just for form’s sake?”

Dulla watched to see if any of the Fats were going to object and spoke a split second before they did. “Not at all, Marshal Pontrefact,” he said warmly. “We are your guests.” But one should show courtesy to guests, and what was this seating arrangement but a deliberate insult? Pontrefact at the head, two of his associates at the foot — the Kuwaiti translator and a woman who could be no one but the Saudi civilian who was the Greasies’ decision maker. On one side of the table were all three of the Fats — Dalehouse, their Russian pilot, and their own translator; and on the other — only himself. How much more deliberately could they point out that he was alone and insignificant? He added diffidently, “Since we are all conversant, I believe, with English, perhaps we can dispense with the translators. It is an old saying of my people that the success of a conference is inversely proportional to the square of the number of participants.”

Quickly, “I shall stay,” said the Fats translator. Pontrefact raised his white-caterpillar eyebrows but said nothing; Dulla shrugged politely and gazed toward the chair, waiting for the proceedings to begin.

The Saudi whispered to the interpreter at some length. Across the table, Dalehouse hesitated, then got up to extend his hand to Dulla. “Good to see you looking fit, Ahmed,” he said.

Dulla touched his hand minimally. “Thank you.” He added grudgingly, “And thank you for assisting in returning me to my own camp. I have not had a chance to express my gratitude since.”

“Glad to help. Anyway, it’s good to see someone from your expedition — we don’t see many of you, you know.”

Dulla glared. Then, stiffly, “I have come a long way for this meeting. Can we not begin?”

“Oh, hell,” said Pontrefact from the head of the table. “Look, mates, the whole reason for this meeting is to try to work together better. We know what a balls-up our masters have made at home. Shall we see if we can do a bit better here?”

Dulla said happily, “Please limit your observations to your own people.” It was as he had suspected; the Greasies were going to insult everyone but themselves. Let this West Indian whose grandfather was a ticket collector on the London Underground make a fool of himself if he chose. Not of the People’s Republics.

“But I’m in dead earnest, Dr. Dulla. We invited you here because it’s clear we are all working at cross-purposes. Your own camp is in serious trouble, and we all know it. The Food people and our own lot are a bit better off, yes. But you don’t have a proper doctor, do you, Dr. Dalehouse? Not to mention a few other things. And we can’t be expected — that is, we don’t have limitless resources either. Under the UN resolution we are all supposed to cooperate and divide the responsibilities. Particularly the science. We undertook the geology, and you can’t say we haven’t played fair about that. We’ve done a great deal.”

“Indeed so,” put in Kappelyushnikov blandly. “Is pure coincidence that most is in personal vicinity and relates primarily to fissionables and to salt domes.”

“That is, to petroleum,” Dulla agreed. “Yes, I think we are all aware of that, Marshal Pontrefact.” How thoughtful of the Fats and the Greasies to begin quarreling among themselves so soon!

“Be that as it may,” the chairman went on doggedly, “there’s a hell of a lot to be done here, and we can’t do it all. Astronomy, for instance. We did orbit a satellite observatory, but — as I am sure you know — it ran into malfunctions. Let me show you something.” He got up and moved to a likris screen on the wall. When he had fiddled with it for a moment the crystals sprang into varicolored light, showing some sort of graph. “You’ve seen our solar generator. This shows the solar input for our power plant. As you see, there are spikes in the curve. This may not seem important to you, but our generator is a precision instrument. It isn’t going to do its job properly if the solar constant isn’t, well, constant.”

Dulla stared in black envy at the graph. That was what he was here for, after all — because he was a specialist in stellar studies! He hardly noticed when Dalehouse put in, “If Kung is acting up, it may mean more to us than a few wiggles in your power supply.”

Pontrefact nodded. “Of course it may. We notified this to Herstmonceux-Greenwich with a copy of the tape. They’re quite upset about it. Kung may be a variable star.”

“Hardly,” sneered Dulla. “It is known that a few flares are possible.”

“But it is not known how many, or how big; and that’s exactly what we need to know. What, if I may say, we confidently expected to know from the astronomical researches that were meant to be conducted by your expedition, Dr. Dulla.”

Dulla exploded. “But this is too much! How can one practice astrophysics when one is hungry? And whose fault is that?”

“Certainly not ours, old chap,” Pontrefact said indignantly.

“But someone blew up our ships, old chap. Someone killed thirty-four citizens of the People’s Republics, old chap!”

“But that was—” Pontrefact stopped the sentence in mid-syllable. He made a visible effort to control his temper. “Be that as it may,” he got out again, “the plain fact is the work’s got to be done, and someone’s got to do it. You have the instruments and we don’t, at least not until proper telescopes arrive from Earth. We have the manpower, and you evidently don’t.”

“I beg your pardon. Allow me to inform you of my academic standing. I am director of the Planetology Institute at Zulfikar Ali Bhutto University and have graduate degrees in astrophysics from—”

“But no one’s disputing your degrees, dear man, only your fitness to function. Let us send our own astronomer over. Better still, let Boyne airlift your equipment here, where there’s better seeing—”