F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 (11 page)

           
“Here –
read this! It’s fresh from the capital.”

           
“Where’d
you get it?”

           
“About half
a dozen reporters came in this morning. One of them gave it to me.” Heber
beamed. “We’re all over the front page!”

           
It was
true. The first sheet of the vid service’s printed counterpart was devoted
entirely to the doings in Danzer. As Junior skimmed the story under Lutt’s
byline, he saw himself portrayed as a mysterious, close-mouthed crusader
against bigotry. And in the middle of the front page was a large photo of the
Vanek kneeling in homage to him.

           
“This is
incredible! Lutt has played me up like some sort of fictional vid hero!”

           
“There’s
not much else doing on Jebinose, I guess, and you seem to make good copy.”

           
Junior
dropped the sheet on the desk in disgust and went to the window.

           
“Where are
they now?”

           
“If I said
they were out back, where would you go?”

           
“Out
front!”

           
“Well,
don’t worry too much now. They’re well occupied down the street at the moment
with Bill Jeffers. Probably asking him some very pointed questions.”

           
“Oh no!”
Junior went to the door and peered out. He could see Jeffers standing in the
doorway of his store, surrounded by reporters.

           
“What’s the
matter?” Heber asked.

           
“Does
Jeffers have a short temper?”

           
“He gets
hot pretty fast, yes.”

           
“Then I’d
better get down there,” he said, and was out the door.

           
As he
hurried down the street, he noted that Jeffers was posed in the stance of a
cornered animal, his face red, his eyes bright, his muscles coiled to spring.
Junior broke into a loping run. It could well be the intention of one of the
reporters to provoke the storekeeper into violence – something to make good vid
viewing. It wouldn’t help the Vanek cause to have the media make a fool of
Jeffers and portray him as a violence-prone imbecile; it would only serve to
double his obstinance.

           
“Well,
well! ‘The Crusader Against Bigotry’ has arrived!” Jeffers called and waved a
news sheet in the air as he caught sight, of Junior approaching.

           
The
reporters immediately forgot Jeffers and turned on Junior with a flurry of
questions.

           
“I’ll talk
to you later,” he said, elbowing his way by them. “Right now I have something
to discuss with Mr. Jeffers.”

           
An
overweight reporter in a bright green jumper blocked his path. “We have some
questions to ask you first, Mr. Finch.” He thrust his recorder plate in
Junior’s face.

           
“No you
don’t,” was the tight-lipped reply.

           
The
recorder plate clicked on as the reporter started his interview, oblivious to
whatever else Junior had in mind. “Now, first off, just where are you from?
Rumor has it that you’re an offworlder and I think you should divulge your–”

           
Without
warning, Junior slapped the recorder plate out of the man’s hand, grabbed two
fistfuls of the shiny fabric of his suit, and shoved him off the boardwalk.
Hearing a recorder click into operation behind him, he whirled, snatched the
plate, ripped it from the extended hand, and hurled it, too, into the street.

           
“Now, I
said I’d like to speak to Mr. Jeffers. So if you don’t mind, wait across the
street until I’m finished. It’s a private conversation.”

           
“Our
viewers have a right–” someone began.

           
“Look! If
you want any kind of an interview at all, you’ll wait over there!”

           
This threat
had real meaning for them. They’d had little time with Jeffers and much of that
had been stony silence. If there anything was to be gleaned from this long hot
trip out to the sticks, it would he in an interview with this Finch character.
Slowly, reluctantly, they drifted across to the other side of the street,
muttering that they’d rather be off-planet somewhere tracking down the rumor
that The Healer was coming to this sector next.

           
“You should
be careful,” Jeffers said, watching Junior curiously. “You’ll ruin your image.”

           
“I couldn’t
do that if I tried,” he replied with a rueful smile, “just as you couldn’t
improve yours. They’ve cast us in our roles and we’re locked into them. I’m the
hero, you’re the villain. My obnoxious behavior just now will be written off in
their minds as a personality quirk. If you had acted the same way, it would
have demonstrated a basic flaw in your character and people all over the planet
would have seen it tonight.”

           
Jeffers
made no reply but continued his curious stare.

           
“Anyway, I
guess you can figure out why I’m here, Bill,” Junior said finally. “I want to
ask you to give in and let’s get things back on an even keel around here.”

           
But
Jeffers’ mind was occupied with something else. “I just can’t figure you out,
Finch,” he muttered, shaking his head in wonder. “Just can’t figure you out.”
Still shaking his head, he turned and disappeared into the darkness within his
store.

           
Junior
started to follow, then changed his mind and headed back toward Heber’s office,
ignoring the waiting reporters. Halfway there, he was stopped by a familiar
voice calling him from the street.

           
“Bendreth
Finch!” It was Rmrl and he was waving from the cab of a shiny new flitterbus.
The vehicle pulled to the curb and Rmrl and a Terran emerged.

           
“Mr.
Finch?” the Terran asked, extending his hand. “I represent a flitter dealer in
the capital. Last night we received an anonymous check in full payment for one
flitterbus to be delivered to you in Danzer today.”

           
“There’s no
such thing as an anonymous check,” Junior replied as he gauged the size of the
bus. It could easily hold thirty or thirty-five Vanek.

           
“Well, the
check wasn’t exactly anonymous, but the donor wishes to remain so. I can tell
you this, however,” he said in a confidential tone, “he’s one of the more
influential traders on the planet.”

           
Heber, who
missed little of what transpired on the street, had come out of his office to
see what was going on and heard the last part of the conversation.

           
“You mean
it’s free? Free and clear? No strings?”

           
The flitter
dealer nodded. “The donor has reasons of his own, I suppose, but he has asked
for no conditions.”

           
Heber
slapped Junior on the back. “See! I told you the publicity would do us some
good.”

           
“Can’t
argue with you,” Junior said. He turned to the man from the capital. “What can
I say? I accept… and ‘thank you’ to whoever donated it.”

           
“Just sign
the receipt and it’s yours.”

           
Junior
signed and turned to Rmrl. “Let’s start the shuttle right now.” But the Vanek
was already halfway into the cab.

           
VINCE PECK
WAS NOT particularly overjoyed to see Junior again, even if he did bring along
a busload of blue-skinned customers with him. But after Junior promised him the
new bus as a replacement for the burned-out lorry, the shopkeeper became more
tractable. He even made so bold as to offer Junior a salary.

           
“Yeah,” he
said, “receipts have been way up since you started shipping in these Vaneks, so
I guess it’s only fair I should pay you a little something. How’s ten credits
Jebscript a day sound?”

           
Junior
shrugged. “Sounds okay to me. I’m worth twice that, but you’re giving me room
and board. And I’d prefer something harder than Jebscript – like Tolivian ags –
but that would be inconvenient in this neck of the woods. So we’ll call it a
deal. We’ll count today as my first paying workday. Okay?”

           
Peck’s
mouth hung open.

           
“Why so
surprised? Did you think I’d refuse?”

           
“Frankly,
yes. I always thought you do-gooder types weren’t interested in money.”

           
“Never
considered myself much of a do-gooder, Mr. Peck. Always been fairly interested
in money, though. And we have a saying in my family: ‘Something for nothing
breeds contempt.’ If I did all this driving for free, you just might take me
for granted. And I wouldn’t want that to happen.” He regarded his new employer
with amusement. “I’m glad you brought it up yourself – saved me the trouble of
asking you.”

           
“YOU WISHED
TO SPEAK TO ME?”

           
“Yes, sir.”

           
“Well, have
a seat.”

           
“Thank you,
sir.”

           
“Now,
what’s on your mind?”

           
“I
understand you have a problem in Danzer, sir.”

           
“You
understand nothing of the sort. I have no problem in Danzer or anywhere else.”

           
“If you say
so, sir. However, I can take care of that problem very tidily.”

           
“I’m very
sorry, but I have no problems to speak of. And if I did, I’m certainly capable
of handling them myself. Good day to you.”

           
“As you
wish, sir. But here is my number. I can remedy the problem without any evidence
that it was remedied. Remember that: no evidence.”

           
AT SUNSET,
THE DAY’S RUN finished, Junior sat in Marvin Heber’s office and savored the
evening breeze as it came through the open door and cooled the perspiration on
his face.

           
“Remember
when I asked you about a temp regulator a while back?” He and Heber had become
close friends since the lorry-burning incident.

           
The older
man nodded.

           
“Well, I’ve
been thinking. It has its advantages – all-around comfort and all that – but if
this little office were regulated, I wouldn’t be sitting in this breeze and
getting all these fresh smells brought to me for absolutely nothing.”

           
Junior was feeling
mellow and very much at peace with himself. “It’s really amazing, you know,” he
rambled, gesturing at the brightening stars. “Out there we’ve got everything
from professional telepaths to genetic architects, and so many people are
completely unaware that places such as Danzer exist. And there must be so many
Danzers, where people get on with outdated technology and wouldn’t have it any
other way. I think I’m really glad I came here.”

           
Someone
knocked on the doorjamb. A young man with an attaché case stood silhouetted in
the waning light. “They told me I could find Mr. Finch here.”

           
 
“That’s me.”

           
The man
entered. “I’m Carl Tayes and I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if I may.”

           
“Not
another reporter, I hope.”

           
“No, not at
all. I represent a number of legislators in the capital.”

           
Heber
pushed a chair over to the newcomer with his foot. “Sit down.”

           
“Thank
you,” Tayes said and did so. He placed the attaché case on his lap and opened
it. “You’ve become quite a figure in the last few weeks, Mr. Finch. In that
time, you’ve aroused more planetwide interest in the Vanek Problem than the
entire legislature has been able to do in the past few years. But the battle is
far from over. Passage of the Vanek Equality Act is not yet assured. To be
frank: support is drying up.”

           
“What’s
this have to do with me?”

           
“Just this:
we would like you to address a few key groups in the capital and urge them to
support the bill.”

           
“Not
interested,” Junior said flatly.

           
“But you
must!”

           
“I must
nothing!” Junior said and rose from his seat. “What I’m doing here is contrary
to everything in that bill! Can’t you see that? If I’m successful here, I’ll
have proved your Vanek Equality Act to be as superfluous as the men who
conceived it!”

           
Heber
listened with interest. He was suddenly seeing a different side of Junior Finch
and it answered a few lingering questions.

           
Tayes was
framing a reply when Bill Jeffers burst into the office. He held a pair of
ledgers high over his head, then slammed them down on Heber’s desk.

           
“Dammit, Finch!”
he roared. “I’m licked. I’ve just been going over my books and I can’t last
another day! I give! Bring back my Vaneks!”