The Warlock's Companion (15 page)

When you're trying to learn, it helps being a teacher.

She'd taught him enough to be able to supervise the factory, which meant that he knew how to do every job himself, if he had to—but he still didn't know enough to plan a job, and certainly couldn't have designed anything more complicated than an autobar. He was studying whenever he could, of course—and she'd been delighted, when she had come home from that third trip to Terra and had found the hard copy sitting out on his desk…

"Dar! You've been studying!"

"Huh?" Dar had looked around in panic. "I won't do it again! I promise!"

"No, do!" Lona bent over to look more closely, and Dar bad a dizzy spell. "It's about wave propagation!"

Dar glanced at his desk, irritated; waves were the last thing he'd wanted to propagate, just then. "Well, sure. I promised you I'd learn enough to run the factory, remember?"

"But I already taught you enough for that. This is above and beyond the call—and it's all on your own! Oh, you wonderful man!" And she turned to him, hauling his face up to hers for a kiss that was so deep and dazzling that he began to think maybe he was pretty wonderful, after all.

When she let him up for air, he gasped, "You keep that up, and I'll have to study all the time."

She did it again, then propped him up before he could slide to the floor. "All right, I'm keeping it up—and you! So start studying. Even when I'm around. Why didn't you before?"

"Uh…" Dar bit his lip. "Well, uh… I kinda thought you might feel like I was, uh…"

"Poaching on my territory?" She shook her head (her hair bounced so prettily when she did that!), eyes shining up at him. "Knowledge is free, sweetheart—or at least, the price is limited to how much studying you're willing to do to gain it. And the more you know, the prouder I am to be with you." Then she'd co-opted his lips again, to show just what form her pride took.

Well, she was body-proud, Dar reflected—and had a perfect right to be. She'd sure given him reason to keep his nose in the books when she was gone. He'd learned calculus and was beginning on some of the more esoteric branches of mathematics, and was almost up to date on wave mechanics—but that still left an awful lot he didn't know: circuitry, information theory, particle physics… "I wonder if I'll ever be able to learn it faster than the scientists are developing the knowledge," he wondered aloud.

"That is possible, Dar." Fess lay in the cargo hold, his computer plugged into the car's controls. "The rate of new discoveries is slowing down, on Terra. There are as many articles published as ever, but they are increasingly derivative. The number of original concepts published and tested declines every year."

Dar frowned. "Odd, that. I'd heard the universities were graduating more Ph.D.s than ever."

"True, Dar, but they no longer require truly original work for their dissertations. Nor will they—bureaucracy tends toward stability, and truly new ideas can upset that stability."

"Well, the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra
is
bureaucratic." Dar frowned. "But its most prominent characteristic is that it's one of the tightest totalitarian governments ever seen. I thought dictatorships
wanted
research, to give them new and better weapons."

"Only if there is an enemy who threatens the dictator's rule, Dar—and PEST has no rivals for the government of the Terran Sphere, at the moment. Such weapons research as is done, is only a seeking after new applications of existing principles. A dictatorship does not encourage the discovery of new ideas."

"I can understand their viewpoint; I'm a little reluctant to try coming up with new ideas, myself."

"That is only because you know enough to know how little you know."

"In which case, I'll probably never outgrow it. Still, I'll be glad when I've learned enough to understand why Lona tells me to do something a certain way. It'd be nice to know what I'm doing, instead of just following her directions blindly."

"That will boost your self-esteem, Dar, perhaps to the point of developing the occasional idea or two, yourself."

Dar shuddered. "Please! I want to court Lona, not disaster. I'm not about to start trying to do things my own way for a long time, yet."

"I think you have Lona on a bit of a pedestal, Dar."

"No, I'm only awed by her knowledge. Well, maybe by her business instincts, too. All of her instincts, in fact…"

He stifled the thought.
Later, boy
, he told himself sternly.
When she comes home. Let's keep to the business at hand here
.

Unfortunate turn of phrase.

"Your attention is drifting again, Dar."

"That's, why I've got a robot pilot." But Dar reluctantly hauled his mind back to business. "In the meantime, if I don't follow Lona's instructions to the letter, our little five-robot factory will break down or start producing defective computers."

"True, Dar, and you will start losing sales."

Dar nodded. "No sales means no money—and on Maxima, no money means no food."

"That statement is true in any civilized society, Dar."

"True. But on an asteroid, 'no money' also means no water after we finish mining the ice on our own homestead—and there're only two pockets left, scarcely ten years' supply. And no water means no oxygen to breathe, and no hydrogen for fusion, which means no electricity."

"True—and, though our airproofing is very good, there is always a slight loss from day to day."

"Yes, and 'No money' also means no nitrogen or trace gases for the atmosphere, and no replacement parts for the life-support machinery. 'No money, no life,' as the Chinese say."

"I do not think Maxima is in any economic danger, though, Dar."

"Not as a whole, no." Dar gazed at the Ngoyas' house, off in the distance. It was a French chateau that could have rivaled Versailles. In fact, it was a copy of Versailles, on a smaller scale (but not much smaller). "The Ngoyas don't seem to be doing too badly. Of course, their factory is almost as big as their house, now." He could see its skylights poking above the ground behind the mansion. (That was the nice thing about ice pockets—when you mined them out, you had great underground chambers for automated machinery). "Their sales have to be over a million therms a year.''

"One million three hundred sixty-eight thousand, Dar. It is a matter of public record."

"Which means our income is, too." Dar winced. "No wonder they're being patronizing toward us."

"I still believe that to be primarily a matter of your perception, Dar. An analysis of speech patterns and facial expressions does not reveal any such attitude in any of your neighbors but the Laurentians, the Mulhearns, and the Bolwheels."

"Those are definitely the worst of them, yes.'' Dar watched a small mountain of a house come into view. "There's the Mulhearns' palace, now." It was Buckingham Palace, in fact—the Maximans were not shy in their pretensions. "Remind me to try to stay away from them."

"If you insist, Dar, though they are relatively harmless."

"Which means they won't harm me, if I don't come near them. Oh, don't worry, I won't insult them. They
are
human, after all."

"You must not sneer at your neighbors, Dar, if you plan to co-exist with them."

"Come on, Fess! You know I get along okay with most of 'em. I just don't particularly have a yen to build a palace in a vacuum, that's all."

"But you would, if you could surround it with atmosphere and a grassy park?"

"Well, maybe." Dar frowned. "There must be some way to enclose those mansions. Maybe if we built underground…"

Fess made a buzzing noise, the robotic equivalent of clearing his throat.

Dar looked up sharply, startled. "Was I drifting again?"

"Yes, Dar, and such speculation is to be encouraged—but within the context of the present discussion, I would like to point out that you are not entirely out of sympathy with the pretensions of your technocratic fellows.''

"Well, maybe a little." Dar frowned. "But then, I'm only skilled labor so far."

"Yes, and you have not yet begun your own dynasty."

The simple thought of offspring made Dar's head whirl.

"Town" was a cluster of one-story basalt buildings in three concentric circles; at their hub was a spaceport. The structures were almost all shops—ship repair, retail import/export, and recreation. There was even a small hotel mixed in with the three bars, but it was only for genuine lodging. The good citizens of Maxima were all engineers, scientists, programmers, and other high-tech workers; none of the women had the time, or the need, to be prostitutes. They had also been very successful in keeping professionals from moving in; the last entrepreneur who had tried it had been chained to a desk with a computer terminal which was hooked to an autochef. The 'chef wouldn't supply food unless the prisoner took, and passed, a computerized exam.

She dug in her heels and maintained the pride of her calling—but after three days of nothing but water, she caved in and learned how to study. A "C" in a basic algebra lesson won her a bowl of chili and a glass of milk. Thus fortified, she plowed ahead through history, algebra, plane geometry, basic chemistry, and a survey of Terran literature, working her way up to pot roast and stringbeans. By the end of three months, she had saddle sores and a high school diploma, at which point she was released from durance vile and packed aboard the next Ceres-bound burro-boat. She spread the word, and Maxima rarely had trouble with women in her line again. She, however, had come back five years later and applied for a job. She turned out to have a talent for organization and was currently coordinating the import-export trade.

"You know," Dar said, as he watched the blocks of the town grow, "these people haven't done all that badly, in some ways."

"Their concern for their offspring has moved them to altruism," Fess agreed. "I would ask you to bear that in mind when you talk to them."

"Oh, I'll be nice," Dar growled. In actuality, he could hardly wait. Living human beings… !

Fess slowed the car, banking it around to point it toward the largest building in town, and Dar tensed, not wanting to say anything—in fact, definitely
not
wanting to say anything, to give Fess one less datum to process. He was ready, though. Sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn't.

The comm screen crackled into life. "Dar, if you're coming, you'd better…"

The screen went black, and the instrument panel went dead. The car dropped like a rock.

Dar slapped the manual override, and the instrument panel glowed to life again. He brought the car down in front of the port, as the commscreen showed Myrtle finishing saying, "… stuff will be gone," and faded from sight.

Dar cut the power, sighed, and lifted the floor plate that gave him access to the prone robot. He pushed the circuit breaker at the base of Fess's "brain," and waited.

"Wwhhhaddtt… DDddaarrrr… whhhhadddttt…"

"You had a seizure," Dar explained gently. "You were coping just fine with the landing, but Myrtle came on the air to tell me to hurry up, and the extra item of processing overloaded your weak capacitor.''

"AAAiiii… ammmm… verrry…"

"Nothing to be sorry about,
mon vieux
," Dar said quickly. "Just keep practicing your meditation exercises, eh? Concentration does it! Lona assured us that's how to control it."

"Iii… willl… attemmptt…it."

"Good. Have a good rest, now." Dar climbed out of the car, making a mental note to try to figure out some way to accelerate Fess's recoveries. He chained his car to the pylon alongside a score of other cars, all of them newer and fancier. Not that he, or any of his neighbors, doubted anyone's honesty—but with the gravity so low, the cars might easily drift away. He turned to survey the row of pylons that curved around the great dome of the meeting hall. It was a very gay display, all colors of the rainbow, with sweeping fins and airscoops and baroque ornamentation—all of it perfectly nonfunctional, of course; how much good could airscoops be in vacuum?

They could look nice. And they did. And by looking nice, they proclaimed their owner's wealth and, consequently, status.

The hell with that. It looked pretty. Beauty was its own excuse for being. Dar turned, clipped his safety to the guy wire, and hauled himself into the hall.

He came through the airlock, opening his faceplate, splitting his seal, tilting his helmet back—and a ham of a hand caught him between the shoulder blades. "Hey, Dar boy! Great t' see ya! How ya been?"

Dar recovered and caught the offending hand with a grin. "Hello, Estivan. What's germane?"

"Not much." Estivan squeezed back. "In fact, from what I hear, the miner only brought in silicon, steel, gold, and some plastic."

"No germanium at all, huh?"

"Yeah, but who uses it any more? So what's been happening at Maison d'Armand, huh?"

"She's not back yet. But as soon as she is, we'll declare party."

"I'll look forward to it. Hey, Carolita!" Estivan waved his daughter over. Carolita looked up from a box of crystals she was fingering, saw Dar, and broke into a smile. "Hi, Dar!" She came over to catch his hand in a warm clasp. "Getting lonely yet?"

"Fess doesn't let me go out alone, Carol," Dar answered, grinning. "Shopping for ornaments, or raw materials?"

Carol shrugged. "Depends on how pretty they are. Need any help on your organic chem?"

"No, but I wish I did."

"Gallant, very gallant—though untrue. Be off with you, though—I know you want to look over the merchandise. You might take a look at the minerals, too."

"Yeah, I gotta at least pretend I'm doing business. Drink after the auction?"

"Suits. Go get ready to be an adversary, now."

Dar turned away, warmed by camaraderie, but also relieved. Carol was right—she wasn't exactly pretty. Not quite ugly, but who was he to talk?