Four-Day Planet - H. Beam Piper (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📗

“There’s a bunch of old business,” he said, “but I’m going to rule that aside for the moment. We have with us this evening our representative on Terra, Mr. Leo Belsher, whom I wish to present. Mr. Belsher.”

Belsher got up. Ravick started clapping his hands to indicate that applause was in order. A few of his zombies clapped their hands; everybody else was quiet. Belsher held up a hand.

“Please don’t applaud,” he begged. “What I have to tell you isn’t anything to applaud about.”

“You’re tootin’ well right it isn’t!” somebody directly in front of me said, very distinctly.

“I’m very sorry to have to bring this news to you, but the fact is that Kapstaad Chemical Products, Ltd., is no longer able to pay forty-five centisols a pound. This price is being scaled down to thirty-five centisols. I want you to understand that Kapstaad Chemical wants to give you every cent they can, but business conditions no longer permit them to pay the old price. Thirty-five is the absolute maximum they can pay and still meet competition⁠—”

“Aaah, knock it off, Belsher!” somebody shouted. “We heard all that rot on the screen.”

“How about our contract?” somebody else asked. “We do have a contract with Kapstaad, don’t we?”

“Well, the contract will have to be renegotiated. They’ll pay thirty-five centisols or they’ll pay nothing.”

“They can try getting along without wax. Or try buying it somewhere else!”

“Yes; those wonderful synthetic substitutes!”

“Mr. Chairman,” Oscar Fujisawa called out. “I move that this organization reject the price of thirty-five centisols a pound for tallow-wax, as offered by, or through, Leo Belsher at this meeting.”

Ravick began clamoring that Oscar was out of order, that Leo Belsher had the floor.

“I second Captain Fujisawa’s motion,” Mohandas Feinberg said.

“And Leo Belsher doesn’t have the floor; he’s not a member of the Cooperative,” Tom Kivelson declared. “He’s our hired employee, and as soon as this present motion is dealt with, I intend moving that we fire him and hire somebody else.”

“I move to amend Captain Fujisawa’s motion,” Joe Kivelson said. “I move that the motion, as amended, read, ‘⁠—and stipulate a price of seventy-five centisols a pound.’ ”

“You’re crazy!” Belsher almost screamed.

Seventy-five was the old price, from which he and Ravick had been reducing until they’d gotten down to forty-five.

Just at that moment, my radio began making a small fuss. I unhooked the handphone and brought it to my face.

“Yeah?”

It was Bish Ware’s voice: “Walt, get hold of the Kivelsons and get them out of Hunters’ Hall as fast as you can,” he said. “I just got a tip from one of my⁠ ⁠… my parishioners. Ravick’s going to stage a riot to give Hallstock’s cops an excuse to raid the meeting. They want the Kivelsons.”

“Roger.” I hung up, and as I did I could hear Joe Kivelson shouting:

“You think we don’t get any news on this planet? Tallow-wax has been selling for the same price on Terra that it did eight years ago, when you two crooks started cutting the price. Why, the very ship Belsher came here on brought the quotations on the commodity market⁠—”

I edged through the crowd till I was beside Oscar Fujisawa. I decided the truth would need a little editing; I didn’t want to use Bish Ware as my source.

“Oscar, Dad just called me,” I told him. “A tip came in to the Times that Ravick’s boys are going to fake a riot and Hallstock’s cops are going to raid the meeting. They want Joe and Tom. You know what they’ll do if they get hold of them.”

“Shot while resisting arrest. You sure this is a good tip, though?”

Across the room, somebody jumped to his feet, kicking over a chair.

“That’s a double two-em-dashed lie, you etaoin shrdlu so-and-so!” somebody yelled.

“Who are you calling a so-and-so, you thus-and-so-ing such-and-such?” somebody else yelled back, and a couple more chairs got smashed and a swirl of fighting started.

“Yes, it is,” Oscar decided. “Let’s go.”

We started plowing through the crowd toward where the Kivelsons and a couple more of the Javelin crew were clumped. I got one of the rolls of quarter sols into my right fist and let Oscar go ahead. He has more mass than I have.

It was a good thing I did, because before we had gone ten feet, some character got between us, dragged a two-foot length of inch-and-a-half high-pressure hose out of his pant leg, and started to swing at the back of Oscar’s head. I promptly clipped him behind the ear with a fist full of money, and down he went. Oscar, who must have eyes in the back of his head, turned and grabbed the hose out of his hand before he dropped it, using it to clout somebody in front of him. Somebody else came pushing toward us, and I was about to clip him, too, when he yelled, “Watch it, Walt; I’m with it!” It was Cesário Vieira, another Javelin man; he’s engaged to Linda Kivelson, Joe’s daughter and Tom’s sister, the one going to school on Terra.

Then we had reached Tom and Joe Kivelson. Oscar grabbed Joe by the arm.

“Come on, Joe; let’s get moving,” he said. “Hallstock’s Gestapo are on the way. They have orders to get you dead or alive.”

“Like blazes!” Joe told him. “I never chickened out on a fight yet, and⁠—”

That’s what I’d been afraid of. Joe is like a Zarathustra veldtbeest; the only tactics he knows is a headlong attack.

“You want to get your crew and your son killed, and yourself along with them?” Oscar asked him. “That’s what’ll happen if the cops catch you. Now are you coming, or will I have to knock you senseless and drag you out?”

Fortunately, at that moment somebody took a swing at Joe and grazed his cheek. It was a good thing that was all he did; he was wearing brass knuckles. Joe went down a couple of feet, bending at the knees, and caught this fellow around the hips with both hands, straightening and lifting