The Cosmic Computer - H. Beam Piper (best black authors txt) 📗

was heavier. She seemed shorter, but that would be because he’d grown a few inches in the last six years. For a moment, he was surprised that Flora actually looked younger. Then he realized that to seventeen, twenty-three is practically middle age, but to twenty-three, twenty-nine is almost contemporary. He noticed the glint on her left hand and caught it to look at the ring.

“Hey! Zarathustra sunstone! Nice,” he said. “Where is he, Sis?”

He’d never met her fiancé; Wade Lucas hadn’t come to Litchfield to practice medicine until the year after he’d gone to Terra.

“Oh, emergency,” Flora said. “Obstetrical case; that won’t wait on anything. In Tramptown, of course. But he’ll be at the party⁠ ⁠… Oops, I shouldn’t have said that; that’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“Don’t worry; I’ll be surprised,” he promised.

Then Kurt Fawzi was pushing forward, holding out his hand. Thinner, and grayer, but just as effusive as ever.

“Welcome home, Conn. Judge, shake hands with him and tell him how glad we all are to see him back⁠ ⁠… Now, Franz, put away the recorder; save the interview for the Chronicle till later. Ah, Professor Kellton; one pupil Litchfield Academy can be proud of!”

He shook hands with them: Judge Ledue, Franz Veltrin, old Professor Dolf Kellton. They were all happy; how much, he wondered, because he was Conn Maxwell, Rodney Maxwell’s son, home from Terra, and how much because of what they hoped he’d tell them. Kurt Fawzi, edging him aside, was the first to speak of it.

“Conn, what did you find out?” he whispered. “Do you know where it is?”

He stammered, then saw Tom Brangwyn and Colonel Klem Zareff approaching, the older man tottering on a silver-headed cane and the younger keeping pace with him. Neither of them had been born on Poictesme. Tom Brangwyn had always been reticent about where he came from, but Hathor was a good guess. There had been political trouble on Hathor twenty years ago; the losers had had to get off-planet in a hurry to dodge firing squads. Klem Zareff never was reticent about his past. He came from Ashmodai, one of the System States planets, and he had commanded a regiment, and finally a division that had been blasted down to less than regimental strength, in the Alliance Army. He always wore a little rosette of System States black and green on his coat.

“Hello, boy,” he croaked, extending a hand. “Good to see you again.”

“It sure is, Conn,” the town marshal agreed, then lowered his voice. “Find out anything definite?”

“We didn’t have much time, Conn,” Kurt Fawzi said, “but we’ve arranged a little celebration for you. We’ll start it with a dinner at Senta’s.”

“You couldn’t have done anything I’d have liked better, Mr. Fawzi. I’d have to have a meal at Senta’s before I’d really feel at home.”

“Well, it’ll be a couple of hours. Suppose we all go up to my office, in the meantime. Give the ladies a chance to fix up for the party, and have a little drink and a talk together.”

“You want to do that, Conn?” his father asked. There was an odd undernote of anxiety, or reluctance, in his voice.

“Yes, of course. I’d like that.”

His father turned to speak to his mother and Flora. Kurt Fawzi was speaking to his wife, interrupting himself to shout instructions to some laborers who were bringing up a contragravity skid. Conn turned to Colonel Zareff.

“Good melon crop this year?” he asked.

The old Rebel cursed. “Gehenna of a big crop; we’re up to our necks in melons. This time next year we’ll be washing our feet in brandy.”

“Hold onto it and age it; you ought to see what they charge for a drink of Poictesme brandy on Terra.”

“This isn’t Terra, and we aren’t selling it by the drink,” Colonel Zareff said. “We’re selling it at Storisende Spaceport, for what the freighter captains pay us. You’ve been away too long, Conn. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in a poorhouse.”

The cargo was coming off, now. Cask staves, and more cask staves. Zareff swore bitterly at the sight, and then they started toward the wide doors of the shipping floor, inside the Airlines Building. Outgoing cargo was beginning to come out; casks of brandy, of course, and a lot of boxes and crates, painted light blue and bearing the yellow trefoil of the Third Fleet-Army Force and the eight-pointed red star of Ordnance. Cases of rifles; square boxes of ammunition; crated auto-cannon. Conn turned to his father.

“This our stuff?” he asked. “Where did you dig it?”

Rodney Maxwell laughed. “You know the old Tenth Army Headquarters, over back of Snagtooth, in the Calders? Everybody knows that was cleaned out years ago. Well, always take a second look at these things everybody knows. Ten to one they’re not so. It always bothered me that nobody found any underground attack-shelters. I took a second look, and sure enough, I found them, right underneath, mined out of the solid rock. Conn, you’d be surprised at what I found there.”

“Where are you going to sell that stuff?” he asked, pointing at a passing skid. “There’s enough combat equipment around now to outfit a private army for every man, woman and child in Poictesme.”

“Storisende Spaceport. The freighter captains buy it, and sell it on some of the planets that were colonized right before the War and haven’t gotten industrialized yet. I’m clearing about two hundred sols a ton on it.”

The skid at which he had pointed was loaded with cases of M504 submachine guns. Even used, one was worth fifty sols. Allowing for packing weight, his father was selling those tommy guns for less than a good café on Terra got for one drink of Poictesme brandy.

II

He had been in Kurt Fawzi’s office before, once or twice, with his father; he remembered it as a dim, quiet place of genteel conviviality and rambling conversation. None of the lights were bright, and the walls were almost invisible in the shadows. As they entered,