Chapter 5 — MIGRANT

Again, I must plead dullness as the pretext to skim over much of the ensuing eight years. Military life is not generally filled with excitement; tedium is its ordinary nature, except for fleeting periods of devastation, as happened on Chiron. I organized the company I commanded as well as I could, given the restrictions of the Book; it became a haven for ambitious Hispanics. Perhaps this amounts to segregation; well, there is more of that than the Navy admits. Other units were generally glad not to have to deal with aggressive Spanish-speaking men and officers; as long as neither they nor we protested, the Navy went along. There is a lot of live-and-let-live in the military.

My sister Spirit abruptly transferred to another base, one orbiting closer to Jupiter, and entered into a term marriage with Lieutenant Commander Phist, the whistle-blower. How she managed that on either practical or social levels I hesitate to conjecture; she was always more clever than I at manipulating her circumstances. I still tended to think of her as the twelve-year-old child I had left among pirates; at eighteen she was a long way from that, but even at twelve she had been nervy and tough in a crisis, always ready and able to do what had to be done. Her restored presence was enormously gratifying to me, and her renewed absence was hard for me, though I knew she would return. She and I could never truly be separated again.

I attended their housewarming, and Commander Phist, a handsome man in his mid-thirties, informed me politely that he would be happy to oblige his wife in any legitimate way within his power.

I explained about Lieutenant Repro's model staff, and Phist said he considered himself honored to be included in that roster. That was all; since my command did not warrant any such staff, it remained only theoretical. Spirit had delivered; the most competent logistics officer in the Navy had elected not to resign and was now in our orbit. I pondered the ethics of this, and concluded that since no deception was involved, and Commander Phist understood why Spirit had come to him and was satisfied, that was satisfactory. The truth was, Spirit had an extraordinary amount to offer any man; I was in a position to know.

Now Lieutenant Repro presented me with the next name on his list: that of the most brilliant unrecognized military strategist to be seen in this century. "The test scores are virtually unbelievable," he confided. "I thought there was a typo or computer glitch, so I double-checked it and found it was true. This person by rights should be put immediately in charge of the entire Jupiter strategic initiative. But that will never happen."

"Why not?" I inquired innocently.

"Three reasons. First, no connections. You have to come from the right family and the right political spectrum to have any reasonable prospect of achieving anything approaching policy-making status."

All too true. I, as a young Hispanic officer, understood that well. "And?"

"Second, you have to be of the proper race. This one has a visible percentage of black ancestry."

That, too, I knew. The Navy was an equal-opportunity employer, but there were few black officers and very few ranking ones. Two strikes.

"Third, you had better be male."

I was startled. "A black woman of the wrong political persuasion?" Three strikes indeed!

"Lieutenant j.g. Emerald Sheller," he concluded. "Age twenty-two. Go get her, Hubris; your sister has shown how."

"But she's young!" I protested. Young: my exact age now.

"That, too, is a liability," he agreed. "But genius knows no age. Be warned, Hubris: She's brilliant, aggressive, and bitter. It will be a significant exercise of your talent."

"I've got to have her?" I asked dispiritedly.

"You've got to have her. One day you'll tackle the pirates on the field of battle, and you will have a reasonable chance of success if Sheller is on your team, and little chance otherwise. She's a wild one, but believe me, Emerald is a jewel."

He was serious, despite the pun, and this was his life's hobby. The ravages of his addiction were more prominent now, but I trusted his competence in this. I had to have wild Emerald Sheller. I nerved myself to get on it.

Locating her was no problem. They had her supervising the filing department of the Base Records Division. Their tests showed her to be the most promising strategic genius available, yet this was the use they put it to! She had a right to be bitter.

I sent her a message: Lt. Hope Hubris Requests Date with Lt. Emerald Sheller. That's an Approved Navy approach. She responded promptly: 1800, this date. A pun, perhaps, on the social and calendar aspects of the word, but nevertheless an acceptance.

I presented myself in my dress uniform at her residence at the appointed hour. I had thought she might dress civilian, as was customary for women in this circumstance, but she met me in her own formal uniform. She was a small, angular woman with short jet-black hair and brown skin, no beauty by the standards of her race or mine, but fit and brisk. Every inch the efficient, virtually sexless clerk. I anticipated a dull evening, but a challenging one intellectually. I was half right.

We shook hands, as it was our first meeting. "I thought we might go to a restaurant and talk," I said.

"I have made arrangements," she announced briskly.

So she had. She conducted me to one of the licensed private shops on the post where we bought two bean sandwiches in bags. Then we went to the capsule tower, which was a mild form of entertainment. Opaque small bubbles were released to be drawn in by Leda's trace gravity. The descent was not far, but the bubbles moved slowly and could take an hour to land, or longer if jostled out of the direct line of fall. They were known as love capsules, for they were commonly used for brief dates. I had never used one before, being already familiar with free-fall and preferring more comfortable settings for my romantic engagements and was surprised Emerald had chosen this. But I said nothing, letting her play it her way. I had, after all, been warned about her aggressive nature and sought no quarrel.

Thus we found ourselves floating down, isolated. We ate our sandwiches, catching stray beans out of the air. And the woman tore into me verbally as if I were a pirate.

"So the lordly Hispanic Lieutenant Senior Grade, hero of Chiron, craves some black nookie. What possessed you to seek out this particular stranger? Surely not my voluptuous ass!" She patted her petite military flank.

My talent works best when there is interaction. I can gather a sense of a person's character in minutes that others might not discover in years. But this woman was complex, and as yet I had no grasp of her. "I am informed that I need you with me," I said.

"You are informed, Lieutenant?" she demanded, in a parody of the martinet. "Don't you have a mind of your own?"

I smiled, refusing to be baited. "Sometimes that is in doubt. You see, I have one ambition, but other people are formulating its realization, and they know more than I do. Thus I am supposed to enlist you in my cause."

"Why do I get the feeling this is not a simple sex-liaison?" she inquired, frowning as if in doubt. She was good at her mannerisms, and I found myself liking her.

"Because it isn't," I said. "I have no particular interest in your body, no offense intended. I need your service as a strategist. You may be the best of this century."

"Let's leave it at the sex. You aren't turned on by my body?"

She remained hostile and difficult to read. There were so may complex currents in her that I still could get no firm sense of the whole. "I asked you for a date because I wanted to talk with you," I said. "It is your mind, your ability I am interested in. I prefer not to advertise my real purpose. No one need know what passes between us here."

"They'll figure sex. And that's what it's going to be."

"I need your strategic genius, not your body," I insisted doggedly. "This isn't any ploy for sex! I won't lay a hand on you. I'm simply asking you to join my mission, because it should represent an excellent challenge for you, and its success may hinge on your ability."

"Well, I still figure sex," she said. "So get your clothes off, spic."

I had not heard that term in some time. It was a hostile reference to a person of Latin descent, specifically Hispanic; its precise application and interpretation had changed in the course of centuries, but it was generally considered grounds for combat when addressed to a person of my background by a Saxon. This woman was only half Saxon but was prickly indeed! Combat was what I did not want. "I only want to talk to you," I insisted. "I have no designs upon your—"

"Yeah, sure," she said. "Get 'em off, Lieutenant Loco, or I'll take 'em off for you."

I was irritated by her perversity but was aware that this was her intent and refused to be baited into open anger. So I removed my clothing and folded and bound it carefully in the null-gee, and floated naked before her. I experienced déjà vu, the feeling of having been here before; it was my memory of my first encounter in the Tail. I would handle this woman as I had the Tail-girl, June, if I had to.

She looked me over. "You're in pretty good health. Well, so am I, We'll wrestle."

"I don't wish to—"

But quickly she divested herself of her own uniform and floated nude before me. It is a peculiarity of the English language that a man unclothed is naked, while a woman unclothed is nude. I have never fully understood the distinction and tend to ignore it, but in this case I appreciated it. Nakedness is embarrassing; nudity is intriguing. Emerald was slender rather than lush, but she was indeed in good health, and her form was well assembled. Sometimes clothing diminishes blemishes or malformity; in this instance it had rendered severe a form that was in fact esthetic. My lost love, Helse, had masqueraded as a boy by strapping down her breasts and wearing boy's clothing; Emerald had in effect done much the same. I had not seen a brown girl completely exposed before and was interested. Her midsection was very small, and her breasts and buttocks quite well rounded.

But I had no intention of indulging in sex with her, because that had never been my intent and because I needed to prove to her that it was her strategic ability I valued. I must confess it had become a certain challenge for me to demonstrate my lack of sexual interest in her, though her body was in no way repulsive to me. Quite the opposite; the overly soft, fleshy women of the Tail were not strongly conducive, while the taut, vibrant, artistically molded flesh of this one—

"Try for a fall," she said, taking hold of me.

A fall—in free-fall? It was impossible! I simply fended her off. But she went for a pain hold, and that sort of thing can be effective in free-fall, so I had to counter. I was stronger than she, and I had had excellent training in several species of martial arts, but most importantly I was increasingly able to fathom her physical strategies. Her mind remained largely unfathomable, but not her body. One might argue that bodily action is a product of the mind behind it, but in practice this is severely limited by the physical chemistry of that body, and its signals are much more evident. So I understood her body, using my talent, and she could not make headway against me.

"One fall for you," she said when this was apparent. "But I can make you perform sexually."

"I've been trying to tell you—"

She grasped my private anatomy and kneaded it. I was surprised, but I remembered the Tail and let her proceed without reacting. This was a considerable challenge, for she had a flair for this sort of stimulation. Then she put her face down and used her tongue in a manner that caught me quite unprepared, and caused me to react despite my intent. In moments I converted, as the saying goes, from rubber to iron. Then she grasped me about the hips and drew me in close to her as we both floated in the sphere, and spread her legs to take me in. She had a kind of internal muscular control that amazed me, and in that manner she had her will of me. I gave up the struggle and clasped her body tightly and thrust urgently within her. "One fall for you!" I gasped as I shuddered to conclusion. She acknowledged by coming further alive against me. Juana, though more luxuriantly endowed, had never reacted like this. Emerald had shown me a new level of sexual experience.

But she wasn't through with me. "You figure you're a leader," she said as she separated from me. "That business with the Hidden Flower—you were just lucky they blundered worse than you did. If you had planned and executed it properly, you could have saved your sister without risking your Navy ship. And the episode in Chiron—blind luck was sixty percent of that, and again your own life was on the line. Those were Pyrrhic victories; too many of them and you'll be finished."

"That's why I need you, to plan and execute my strategy," I said humbly.

She considered momentarily. "Very well, Hubris. I'll marry you."

I had not, of course, proposed marriage to her. But in the Navy, term marriages were the norm for officers, just as heterosexual rooming was for enlisted folk. Emerald Sheller had concluded that she could achieve her own ambition more readily by being with me than on her own, and marriage was the most expedient way to get her reassigned to my unit.

We signed the forms that evening, for a one-year term, renewable, and next day she was transferred to my unit. For the second time in the Service, I had a liaison with a woman in which convenience was the motivating force, rather than emotion. But Emerald took her wifely perquisites seriously, and I must confess that I liked it. She was motivated to succeed at anything she tried, and her definition of success was demanding. She saw marriage as a legitimization of both sex and common interest, and she was quite good as both sexual partner and intellectual partner. I think I could have loved Emerald, had she wanted to be loved, and had I wanted to love. Certainly I respected her. She was indeed a kind of genius. When our year was up, we renewed without question, and again the following year. Each time I told her: "I married you for your mind, but you conquered me with your body." And each time she said: "I know it." But the word love remained forbidden.

Emerald assumed the management of my career, and as my success as a leader led to promotion, her career profited, too. She was doing what she lived for, strategic planning. In three years I was a lieutenant commander, O4, and she was a lieutenant, O3, and my company was achieving a reputation as a fortunate unit.

Emerald, however, did not get along perfectly with the others. She had a certain acerbic way of expressing herself that came across more in tone and look than in content, and in this way she distanced herself from male and female alike. That seemed to be the way she wanted it. My sister Spirit, when she returned to the unit, resented this especially, yet she was the first to recognize what Emerald was doing for my career and the reputation of our unit, and she was also aware that Emerald and I were using each other, quite consciously and amicably. Spirit remained my closest friend and associate; she was the one I loved.

I should clarify an aspect of the military system and how it related to us. Some navies were organized on strictly impersonal lines, with officers rotated every six months and enlisted personnel having absolutely no certainty of assignment. The Jupiter Navy, however, favored the so-called Regimental system popularized by the Uranian moon of Titania, in which both officers and enlisted personnel tended to remain for prolonged periods in the same units, changing assignments only if dissatisfied with present ones. Promotions were generally within the unit, so that the commander had years-long association with the unit he took over. This led to much greater esprit de corps and satisfaction. Fewer people retired early, and performance tended to be better. I endorsed this system wholeheartedly, as it enabled me to gather in those people I knew to be good, and to retain them. For example, I got my old roommate Juana to be my secretary. She was now a sergeant, E5, and I promoted her at the earliest opportunity. She was a bright woman, good at her task, but our association was more than that. She knew my ways and would never betray my interests. Emerald was not entirely pleased, knowing our prior connection, but in this case I put my foot down. I wanted a secretary I really understood and trusted. There was, of course, no further sexual contact; Juana was enlisted, and officers did not mix that way with enlisted. But Juana and I remembered our first encounter in the Tail with a certain fondness; we had been good for each other and remained so, and that was what Emerald distrusted. I could talk candidly to Juana; she would understand, and she was never abrasive. I think it is possible for a man to be closer to a woman after the flame of sexual appetite has burned out; at this time true friendship becomes feasible, and that is as rewarding in its fashion as sex.

I also gathered in a considerable number of the Hispanics I had commanded during the Chiron mission—and some of the Saxons, too. They had never forgotten how we worked together to befriend the Greeks and how many lives had been saved when the violence erupted. They also remembered how I had scrubbed the barracks floor. Some called me, privately, el cepillo, the brush. But only those who had been there at the time; they were a select group. And I also picked up a few Chironiotes, young folk who had emigrated and been inducted as resident aliens. They had petitioned to be assigned to my unit, and I was flattered.

Of course, I got Sergeant Smith. Mine was not a training battalion, so my company had no recruits, but we did have need of instruction and discipline, and there was a better future for Sergeant Smith with us. We were an action unit, similar to the one on the Chiron mission; we could be sent out to fight at any time. I wanted my men ready, and Sergeant Smith was the one to get them ready. When he transferred in, there was some muted protest by my regulars because he was a Saxon outsider, but I put out the word: He was also the one who had put me on the track to officer's training. Without Sergeant Smith, I would not have become an officer, and this unit would not exist. Sergeant Smith was amazed at the welcome he received then, and the cooperation he received from a class of personnel who had always given him trouble before.

But mainly I was assembling my elite administrative officer corps. As commander of a company I did not warrant a special staff, so this remained largely in the imagination of Lieutenant Repro, but we had designated the positions and placements that would occur at such time as I commanded the battalion. In that fantasy, I was the commander, and Emerald was my executive officer. She was planning my promotion and acquisition strategies, devising ploys to gain key personnel, and doing comprehensive research on battle tactics, anticipating the time when we would put them into practice against the pirates.

Spirit was to be my S-l, or adjutant, the chief administrative officer. She would be responsible for all paperwork, finance, mail, personnel records, promotions, legal problems, and my official correspondence. Juana was really her secretary as much as mine, and the two got along well together, perhaps because Juana never opposed her will to Spirit's. Spirit was, in fact, running my company now, and all others knew that when she issued a directive, I backed it even if it hadn't originated with me. Because she was also Hispanic and spoke fluent Spanish, my Hispanic enlistees accepted her on her own merits.

Gerald Phist was to be my S-4, Logistics. He was not presently connected to my unit, but thanks to Spirit he was ready to join when this became feasible. He would be responsible for keeping the unit supplied with whatever it needed to accomplish whatever mission it had: ammunition, food, fuel, repair, spaceships, and so on.

Lieutenant Repro was to be our S-5: Public Relations, or propaganda. He remained ravaged by his addiction, his Achilles' heel; we had to help him mask it, but his mind remained sharp. I was increasingly curious about the nature of the drug he took but still hesitated to inquire, knowing I could do nothing about it.

Still our roster was not complete, even theoretically. I needed more rank, and promotions did not come readily to brash Hispanics. Emerald brooded on it, seeking a suitable avenue for rapid progress, and in this we were all with her.

Things broke one morning, abruptly. Spirit came striding into my bedroom, trailed diffidently by Juana. "Rise and shine, Hope!" she cried, waving a news printout. "Our mission is on the horizon."

I blinked sleepily. It was 0500. "What?"

"Get up, brother!" she said, catching my top sheet and whipping it off the bed. I slept naked, as she knew, so this was a rather forceful inducement to wake and dress.

Of course, Emerald also slept nude, and she was not entirely pleased to be exposed before my sister and Juana, both of whom were somewhat more generously endowed than she was, physically. "Get out of here, you canine!" she snapped, sitting up.

"This concerns you, too, Exec." Spirit said, unfazed. "The news just broke—" She paused, staring at Emerald's torso. "Of course, if you're too tired after mauling my brother all night, perhaps it should wait."

Juana stood near the door, repressing half a smile. I winked at her, keeping my own mouth shut. Spirit and Emerald were the two most forceful personalities in our group, and sparks often flew when they collided.

"Speak your piece and clear out, Adjutant!" Emerald snapped. She managed to pronounce the word speak with a short vowel sound, hinting at that cultural slur again.

"Or if you prefer to take thirty seconds to work your black magic again, before he gets away—" Spirit continued.

Thirty seconds! Slur and counterslur! They might as well have been fighting with knives.

Lieutenant Repro arrived at that point, forestalling Emerald's response. "Got here as soon as I could—" He broke off, taking in the situation. "Just what kind of a mission is this?"

"You summoned him, too?" Emerald demanded of Spirit.

Commander Phist arrived. "Have I missed anything?"

Emerald, sitting on the bed, threw back her shoulders and spread wide her legs. "You tell me, sir," she said. "See anything here your busy wife hasn't shown you recently?"

Phist actually blushed. He turned away and almost collided with Sergeant Smith, who was just arriving.

"Sit down, all," Spirit said. "I called this staff meeting because time may be of the essence. We all know our futures are tied to Hope, and he needs a promotion. I think we have a chance at that now, if we act quickly."

They sat down around the bed, except for Sergeant Smith and Juana, who felt that enlisted personnel should not presume. If Sergeant Smith was perplexed at the manner of Emerald's dress and mine, he was too diplomatic to show it.

"Well, spit it out, woman," Emerald said, realizing that Spirit had pretty much skunked her on this encounter.

"Hope, you have had experience in the agricultural sector," Spirit said to me.

"Yes," I agreed. "Eight years ago, before I joined the Navy."

"So you should have an understanding of the issues; that gives you an advantage."

Phist lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps I am slow, Spirit. I don't perceive the relevance."

Spirit waved her newsclip. "The Aggies are rioting. The Navy has been asked to intervene."

"Let me see that!" Emerald said, snatching the news-clip. "Why didn't I know about this before? It's a golden opportunity!"

"Well, if you'd been on your job instead of—"

"Because we lack an S-2," Lieutenant Repro said quickly, though even he ran an appreciative eye over Emerald's torso. It seemed he did have other interests beside the drug and his dream. "A top Intelligence man would have alerted us to this long before the public news broke."

"And what S-2 man do you have in mind?" I inquired.

"That's awkward," Repro said. "Which is why I haven't brought this up before. Your ideal hidden S-2 is acquirable only by one means, and your sister isn't his type."

"I should hope not," Phist said. His eyes were wide open about Spirit's reason for marrying him, but he loved her. He was thirty-nine, she twenty-one, but they made a splendid couple. "Who is his type?"

Repro coughed apologetically. "Emerald."

Emerald straightened again, frowning, then quickly shifted gears. "Is he young and handsome?"

"Middle-aged and sickly, like me," Repro said. "With a potbelly and severe emotional disturbance. But he's the Intelligence man we need."

"Well, we can live without him," Emerald said. "I'm not going out whoring for discredited personnel."

Phist flinched, and Spirit's eyes flashed. Emerald had scored that time!

I changed the subject. "First, there is the matter of this prospective mission. I don't want to strong-arm migrant laborers. I still identify with them."

"Precisely," Spirit said.

"Damn, we need to organize for this," Emerald said. "We need our S-3, too, Operations. I can't plan strategy without knowing what we've got and how it's organized."

"Sergeant Smith knows," Spirit said. "He can handle S-3."

"With all due respect," Lieutenant Repro said, "I believe the psychological thrust is most important here. We can certainly volunteer for the mission and get it, because no commander in his right mind wants to tangle with rioting migrants who have little to lose and are very likely to destroy vital crops and make a messy scene regardless of what the Navy does. They aren't pirates or Saturnians; they're underprivileged Jupiter nationals and resident aliens, and there's a formidable bleeding-heart contingent on Jupiter that will raise one hell of a stink if any migrants are abused."

"They are abused!" I said angrily. "Sometimes a riot is the only way to make their case!" I had never looked in on the migrant scene after joining the Navy, knowing my friends there were dead or imprisoned; now I felt guilt for my neglect.

The members of my staff exchanged significant glances. "Let's go for it," Emerald said. "A bloodless settlement, by a minority-culture Navy officer who knows the migrants. Excellent press! That'll bump Hope up to O5 right there, with luck."

"My thought exactly," Spirit said. "But we do need that Intelligence officer, or we risk flubbing it."

Emerald bit her lip. "Yes, we do. I've got to target every migrant leader, his background and nature. Precise dirt. Must have that S-2."

The others slowly nodded. "But he needs a competent and understanding woman, of a certain physical type. You realize what that means," Repro said.

Emerald slammed her fist into the pillow. "Whoring for personnel. Damn it!" she swore, angry tears in her eyes. "I liked it better with a man who understood me! I'll get you back for this, Spirit!"

"She didn't suggest this," Repro said. "I did. Sometimes we just have to make sacrifices." But I knew he was being gallant; Spirit had known.

"You damned junkie!" Emerald snapped at him. "Get out of my life!"

Repro hastily exited, and the others got off the bed. Emerald turned to me. "But I'm not through with you yet, Commander. If I've got to go whoring, I'll whore for you one more time." And she took hold of me, commencing a furious act of passion even before the others were clear of the room. Even as I enjoyed the experience, as I always did with her, I wondered what kind of man could only be won by such an aggressive display. Emerald really wasn't much on understanding, but she was supremely competent. I hoped that S-2 would be worth the sacrifice that I, too, was making, in giving up this Class A sexual experience.

And so it was that my marriage to Emerald was dissolved by mutual consent before our third year together was finished, and I volunteered my company for participation in the Navy action relating to the migrant riots, and Emerald, as she insisted on putting it, went whoring for personnel. Spirit had indeed torpedoed her rival for my attention, and I had to go along with it, though I had been well satisfied with Emerald as wife. The organization of my unit, orthodox on paper, was not nearly as regular and disciplined in practice; it was a hodgepodge of luck and sex and connivance and obscure understandings, guided by the mad dream of a drug addict. But we had purpose, and an extraordinarily fine cadre—and now we would put it to the proof.

Emerald acted swiftly and decisively, as was her wont. That evening she brought Lieutenant Mondy in to see me. He was as represented: about forty-five, pudgy, balding, and with nervous mannerisms. There were bags under his eyes, suggesting he was chronically short of sleep. He was O3, and had been there for twenty years, a derelict who evidently had not resigned when passed over for promotion repeatedly because he had nowhere else to go. He certainly was not physically imposing. But I knew better than to judge him by appearance; Lieutenant Repro called him the best available, and my talent was rapidly confirming the internal complexity of this man.

Nevertheless, I tested him. "Show me your power."

"You lost your family to pirates and swore to extirpate piracy from the System," he said without hesitation. "But your resolve has been blunted by circumstance. Your sister Spirit has become the backbone of your effort to organize a truly competent and low-profile antipirate force. She hesitates at nothing to promote your interests, and that attitude has spread to your other associates, even to your wife, who is now willing to sacrifice her personal comfort on your behalf."

He was on target so far. I felt no uncertainty in him as he spoke; his nervousness stemmed from personal concerns, not professional ability. "And?"

"You wish to capitalize on the current agricultural sector disruption," he continued. "You hope to succeed so well in this inclement assignment of migrant laborer pacification that you will earn a promotion to full Commander. Unfortunately you are not a schemer, so may fail to exploit your opportunity properly."

Emerald turned her head, surprised at this. "Clarify," I said, intrigued.

"Considering the risk you are taking of being punished as a scapegoat if you fail, you should make this double or nothing. Your entire unit must be given pressing incentive to succeed. You must name a price commensurate to the challenge: a blanket promotion."

"A what?"

"One grade for every member of your command. Private to PFC. Sergeant to SFC." He glanced at Emerald. "Lieutenant s.g. to Lieutenant Commander." Emerald gave a start. None of us had thought of this!

"That can be done?" I asked.

"The Navy is prepared to pay for its most challenging and risky missions, if the price is made clear at the outset. This is not by the Book, but the Book is commonly honored more in the neglect than in the letter. Consider the challenge: About fifty farm bubbles are involved, with a thousand others watching to see the outcome, and a sizable element of the Jupiter population ready to react politically no matter which side wins. The Navy doesn't want this assignment, considering it to be a sure disaster, but cannot refuse it. The migrant workers demand better conditions, more pay per basket picked, and a recognized union to represent their interests in the future. The owners claim they can't afford more pay without raising prices to the point where consumers will balk, and they absolutely refuse to recognize any union. So the workers have gone on strike, and hunger has caused them to riot at three bubbles. They swear to die before they return to work under the old conditions, and not all of them are bluffing. The crops are spoiling. Prices have begun an anticipatory rise on Jupiter, making the political climate volatile. This will be remembered at the next general election. It has become an extremely sensitive matter. The Navy will be instructed to end the strike within seventy-two hours, and it looks as though there will have to be martial law and summary executions of resistant migrants. About a third of the workers are of Hispanic descent, and this use of force could further complicate Jupiter politics. In sum: If this job is bungled, the current government could fall." He smiled grimly. "I think a blanket promotion is not too much to ask for a quick, peaceful, amicable, and lasting settlement."

He certainly had the essentials! I had not comprehended the ramifications. "But can our unit succeed?" I asked.

"Very likely—with the proper information, strategy incentive, and nerve. You can arrange everything except the information. I can supply that."

"Will you join us?" I asked, certain now that this was the officer we needed. A scheming genius!

"I am of course available for a price. But the ethics are uncertain."

And I saw that he was concerned with ethics. That was an excellent sign. "This morning Emerald and I were in the third year of our term marriage," I said. "We dissolved it by mutual consent so that she would be available for you. We were satisfied with each other, and faithful to each other, but we were not in love. It was a marriage of convenience. We deeply regret having to separate, but the need of the unit overrides our personal preferences, and we have done it. Promotions and the chance to establish our unit formally, with its full slate of officers, would make up for whatever private personal misgivings we have." I saw Emerald nodding. She wanted, more than anything else, to be a true military strategist, and the blanket promotion would be a giant step in that direction. "If Emerald marries you, she will be true to you for the duration of that marriage, and I will find another woman. Our unit is more important than our marriage. I trust she has already shown you what she can do for you." Again I saw her nod. Her demonstrations were impressive.

"You don't understand," Mondy said. "I am aware of the inhuman discipline you both possess, and the hard-nosed tactic by your sister who resents your sexual captivity by another woman." Emerald gave another start; evidently she had not told him of that. "You are making me an offer I am unable to decline, and I must compliment Lieutenant Repro on his Machiavellian perception in using my own system against me. But my awareness that Emerald would return instantly to you if she could, and that I can never have her love—"

"I never had her love," I said.

"Nor your secretary's," he agreed. "It becomes a matter of definition. You have more than you suppose."

He had researched all of us intimately! "It is true that Emerald has an unkind manner of phrasing it, but—"

"Whoring for personnel," he said. "And I have no pride in this respect; I will accept her on that basis. Her demonstration was persuasive in more than the physical sense. A unit with such dedication to its welfare—" He shrugged. "I would certainly like to be part of that unit. But I am not merely an unattractive man eager for young flesh. I suffer from post-traumatic syndrome. I am not easy to live with."

"I believe that should be between the two of you," I said. "If she believes she can handle it—"

"I can handle anything I have to," Emerald said, though she seemed shaken by Mondy's knowledge of the situation. How had he discovered our dialogue of the morning? Emerald had shown him her power; now he was showing us his.

"I will not bore you with my South Saturn experience," Lieutenant Mondy said. "I will just say that it continues to haunt me, after twenty years, and has ruined me as a conventional officer. I wake screaming in the night; I go on drugs sometimes by day, not from addiction but from inability to function otherwise. I am literally afraid of the dark. I am terrified of being alone, but even in company I cannot necessarily relax. I need someone to talk to, about things that are not pleasant to discuss. I need a nurse. No woman has been able to put up with me for more than a few days. I am no sweet, cuddly teddy bear; I need a woman with guts and stamina and comprehension as well as a body."

"I can handle it," Emerald repeated grimly.

"We offer you more than a woman," I said. "We offer you a family. Give us what we need, and we will give you what you need. It seems a fair exchange."

"I'll take it," he said.

And so we got our S-2 officer. I won't say Lieutenant Mondy was easy to get along with. He did, indeed, wake screaming in the night, and on occasion I had to come and help Emerald restrain him from hurting himself or her. It was not that he was vicious, but that he suffered hallucinatory episodes of horror that caused him to flail uncontrollably. It was not feasible to put him in restraints; his reaction to that could have killed him. But he did like young flesh, and it did have a pacifying effect on him, and at age twenty-four Emerald was young enough. As he came to know and trust her, this became more effective, even during his worst spells. She had to be with him constantly, at first, day and night, literally holding his hand, speaking softly to him, sometimes literally seducing him into relaxation. She was tough, and she was showing more compassion now than I had realized she possessed, but this was a strain on her; she lost weight and sleep. But gradually she got on top of it and recovered much of her former animation. "I never knew when I was well off," she muttered once to me, and I was deeply flattered. She was making a real sacrifice for the unit, and I wished there was more I could do for her, but our code forbade it now.

Mondy did produce for us, and we all came to respect his mind. He had an intimate understanding of the vulnerabilities of the military system, and he knew, often literally, where the bodies were buried. He came up with information about the migrant leaders that amazed me. We used that information to formulate a daring strategy.

We got the mission, of course; it was ours for the asking. And Lieutenant Mondy had no trouble transferring in immediately; the Navy didn't value trauma-ridden officers any more than it did ambitious Hispanics or blacks or addicts or whistle blowers. And, after a week's bureaucratic delay, we got our deadline exactly as Mondy had predicted: seventy-two hours from our scheduled arrival at the Agricultural Ring. That wasn't much time!

I briefed my company. Most of the top men had a pretty good notion already what was up, and they were for it. I stressed that we intended to get the migrants back to work without violence, and that we would do our best to relate to them, speaking in Spanish or whatever language made them most receptive. "But these are tough and desperate people," I concluded. "For two weeks they have held out against the owners and the government itself. So first we shall show them our power."

Then I turned it over to my staff for implementation. We were preparing for a battle, but not for bloodshed; we intended to convert the migrants to our side by means of a finely orchestrated campaign.

According to Lieutenant Mondy's information, rioting had gutted three bubbles, and these had already been evacuated. They were scheduled for demolition and replacement; it was easier to bring in new bubbles from Jupiter, paid for by calamity insurance, than to repair the old ones in space. We requested and received permission to use them for target practice during our mission; Mondy had known what channel to use to get immediate affirmation. But the missiles Lieutenant Commander Phist arranged for us to stock were not standard ones; they were heavy-duty planetoid busters, seldom used in the Juclip. But Emerald had specified that kind, and I concurred. We were ready to show our power.

We selected our first bubble carefully. The leader of the workers here was Hispanic and had a checkered history that we could exploit psychologically. Lieutenant Mondy had briefed me thoroughly on this; that information, plus my talent, should put the migrant in the palm of my hand. We hoped.

We closed on the bubble, landed, and hooked on well away from the migrant bus; no sense inviting early trouble. A picked squad charged in, armed with stunners and ready for action. The way was clear, and I followed with a picked squad of my own. We carried no visible arms, but my sergeant had a pacifier: an electronic device that could deprive people in the area of their free will, unless they were protected by small personal interrupters as my own troops were. I didn't want to use the pacifier, as it would not solve the long-term problem; it was merely a backup in case things went wrong.

This was a pepper bubble. The sight of its rows of green plants stirred me to nostalgia, for I had first worked as a migrant picker in a pepper bubble. This was one reason we had selected this one to start. Still, I felt the impact. Nine years—how brief it seemed, suddenly! The subjective impression sometimes bypasses objective reality.

The workers were spread out around their ship exit, looking bedraggled and hungry. This strike was hard on them, because the bubble-owner normally provided most of the food, selling it to the local foreman. Naturally the food was the first thing cut off when the workers balked. They did have some supplies of their own but not enough for comfort. They had to have been subsisting largely on peppers for several days, which was no joy. We had brought extra food, but we said nothing of this now.

"We represent the Jupiter Navy Order-Restoring Force," my sergeant announced in English as we approached. "We want to talk to your leader."

A large, swarthy man in his thirties stepped out. "I'm Joshua. I'm the foreman, and I'll speak for the workers here."

Now I spoke. "I am Lieutenant Commander Hope Hubris, in charge of this expedition. I speak for the Jupiter Navy. I have no politics; I am only here to see that you return to work before any more of the crop spoils."

"You going to arrest us all, officer? That won't pick these peppers."

"I don't want to arrest anyone. I just want to see this thing amicably settled."

"Easy enough," he said. "Just give us decent conditions and better pay and our union, and we'll be glad to work."

"I can't promise any of that, especially not the union," I said. "But I can help negotiate something, if you will return to work first."

Joshua spat on the ground and turned his back. It was his typical reaction to affront, as Mondy had informed me.

I was ready. "Don't turn your back on me, gringo!" I snapped in Spanish.

The man whirled, his face abruptly charged with fury, a knife appearing in his hand. But I was already moving, and a knife was in my hand, too.

He paused, surprise tempering his anger. "You're bluffing, Navy man. You don't know how to use that thing."

"Take my word, picker: I know how."

"Watch it, Josh," one of the migrants said. "Either way, you're dead. They've got power weapons."

"There is another way," I said. "Sergeant."

The sergeant stepped forward smartly. "Sir."

"The rubber knives."

"Yes, sir." He lifted a case and opened it. Inside were two handsome knives. He removed first one and then the other, flexing them to show their nature clearly. They looked real, but they were toys.

Joshua stared. "A joke?"

I smiled. "You have doubted me twice," I said in Spanish. "I don't want to stop your doubt by killing you. Try it with these, and doubt no more."

He shook his head. "What the hell." He put away his real knife and took one of the rubber ones. I did the same.

He came at me suddenly, but I was already moving aside. Few amateurs can match the proficiency of one who has trained seriously with such weapons. In a moment I had his knife arm in a standing armlock, and my own knife poised at his throat. I had him.

Joshua froze, then relaxed, as Lieutenant Mondy had predicted he would. He was a man of bluff and give, as my own talent had confirmed, seldom pursuing an unprofitable course too far. He laughed, converting his defeat to a joke. "Okay, Navy man; you can use a rubber knife. You say you can negotiate a better deal for us?"

I let him go, and we returned the rubber knives to the case, and the sergeant put the case away exactly as if a genuine duel had been fought. "I can negotiate—if I have your help. Not for the union; the farmers will blow up their own bubbles before they give on that. But the rest, yes. I need to get the top leaders of the striking migrants together with the most intransigent farmers' representatives and have them bargain together in good faith. The only way I can get them together is if one of their own endorses my effort. The farmers say they'll meet if I can get the migrant leaders to come. So I am asking you to come with me and help persuade the other leaders to board my ship. I promise to treat them with respect and return them all safely to their locations, regardless how the negotiation works out."

He squinted at me. "Do I doubt you a third time?" He gestured with his hands. "I guess I've got to believe you. You could have mowed us all down with lasers instead of talking. You could have taken me on with a real knife and killed me if you'd wanted to. In fact, you could have killed me with the fake knife! Sure, I'll do it. What I want is a fair settlement, not a lot of fighting." He glanced at his workers. "But maybe—"

"To show my good faith to your people while you are gone, I will leave some of my personnel with you, unarmed." I turned to the sergeant. "Send out Corporal Allen with some food."

"Food?" one of the migrants asked involuntarily. Yes, they were hungry!

The sergeant spoke into his mike. In a few minutes Corporal Allen arrived with three privates, hauling a chest on wheels. "Corporal Allen reporting as directed, sir," she said, saluting smartly. She spoke in Spanish.

The migrant workers stared. Corporal Allen was not only of mixed Hispanic descent, she was stunningly pretty—and so were the three female soldiers with her. Their uniforms had been tailored to enhance rather than diminish their qualities.

"Remain here and serve these good men a good meal," I told her. "We'll pick you up when we return with Don Joshua." At that, Joshua gave a start; I had referred to him with respect, Spanish-style. Such little signals can carry powerful freighting.

As we departed with Joshua, the girls were opening up the chest to reveal a relatively sumptuous array of hot meats and vegetables and cold fruits and wine, with spices on the side. They smiled winningly at the hungry workers, who were covertly wiping the dirt off their faces and combing their hair. There would be no quarreling with the Navy in this dome!

Joshua paused to look back, half-longingly. "By the time I get back, my men'll vote to take anything you offer," he muttered.

"That's better than bloodshed, isn't it?" I inquired innocently.

Food and attention were awaiting Joshua on the ship. He was treated with deference by our personnel, as if he were an honored dignitary. He well understood the psychological ploy, but he enjoyed it. The fact that we were making the effort was as impressive as the effort itself. The bubble-farmers had spurned him and his cause; we were doing him the signal honor of taking him seriously. Dignity and respect—these can be magic.

We detached and jetted to the next bubble on our list, as carefully targeted as the first had been. Lieutenant Mondy and Lieutenant Sheller had choreographed this precisely; I was merely the officer implementing their strategy.

The second leader was a straight Saxon original-stock illiterate leader type, stupid but strong. He was not about to fight the Navy but also not about to be moved. His name was Laredo, and I remembered the song that was from. I left Joshua Jericho in Juana's care, feasting on Spanish-style food, and took my squad out into the bubble. The preliminaries were similar to those of the prior session, but this time I spoke no Spanish and made no challenge with the knife. Instead I glanced at the acreage filled with tomato plants. "That certainly doesn't look like such hard work to me," I remarked.

Now Laredo was an excellent tomato picker. He didn't know that I had developed a good technique myself, in my year as a picker. I could move tomatoes about as fast as anyone, without bruising them. He assumed I had always been a Navy officer.

"Shipman, you couldn't do no work like this," he asserted. "It takes speed, stamina, and a sure touch. This ain't soldiering; this is real work."

I shook my head, disbelieving him. "It seems to me anybody could do this sort of work."

"Oh, yeah? Well, soldier boy, why don't you just try it yourself? Then maybe you'll see what we're striking about."

I pondered. "I'll tell you what. If I show you I can pick as well as you can, will you come on my ship and negotiate with the farmers to end the strike?"

He laughed, and so did the other workers, who well knew the pitfalls of the simple-seeming job of tomato picking. Too fast or hard, and they bruised and were rejected. There were many migrants who couldn't pick tomatoes, because their touch was too heavy. This was a chance to put a snobbish Navy officer in his place without getting into further trouble! "You're on, mister!"

We set it up. The deal was to pick ten buckets of tomatoes and deliver them to two migrant inspectors for checking. The winner would be the one who completed the job first with fewer than ten tomatoes rejected for bruising. Each of us had a row. My men became my cheering section, while the migrants favored Laredo. We took our buckets, and started picking at the "go" signal.

It had been eight years since I had picked, but a skill once mastered is never forgotten, and I had had considerable training in the interim. I had muscle and stamina, and I could handle explosives rapidly without a slip. Also, I had rehearsed during the trip to the Agricultural Ring, with tomatoes on the ship, recalling and sharpening my technique. I was ready for this.

Laredo, on the other hand, was a foreman. He had not actually done much picking in the past two years, so was rusty.

My hands moved rapidly, plucking the fruits, twisting them expertly from their attachments without damaging the plants, and setting them gently in the bucket. The migrants gaped, then frowned, realizing that they had been suckered. I delivered the first bucket before Laredo did, and started on the second.

Laredo now realized that he was in a serious contest. He was a good picker. He buckled down with increasing speed and skill, getting back into the familiar routine. I had a slight lead but could not improve on it. No doubt he thought I would fade, but I was too fit for that; I continued without slacking. He began sweating, for he was heavyset; his eyes flicked often to my bucket.

I brought in my tenth just ahead of his. My troops cheered.

But there was a hitch. "Too many rejects," the man who checked my total announced. Sure enough, there were a number of badly bruised fruits.

I knew I had not bruised them. The migrant checker had done it himself, to disqualify me. That was one thing we hadn't counted on: cheating.

Laredo went over to inspect my tomatoes, frowning. "Them's all recent bruises," he said. This was the premium variety, very delicate, that discolored almost immediately.

I shrugged, knowing complaint would only seem like an excuse. "I guess I wasn't as good as I thought I was,"

"Man, I saw you setting 'em in! You never—" Then he paused. He was an honest man, but he didn't want to accuse his own worker of cheating. "It don't matter. You proved you could pick. I'll go on your ship."

So I had won what counted. We brought out the food, as before, this time served by petite Saxon privates, and Laredo boarded the ship. "You was a picker," he said to me challengingly. "You never learned to pick like that in the Navy!"

"Before I joined the Navy," I admitted. "We rioted, too." Then I proffered my hand, and he took it. I had another man with me in more than body, which was the point of the exercise.

The third bubble was the toughest. The strike leader was an old-timer, as tough as they came, named John Henry. Neither physical force nor picking expertise would move him, we knew; he would settle for nothing less than victory. His workers were expecting us, too; they had a barricade set up, and they were armed with knives and clubs. Any attempt to roust them out would result in bloodshed, and that could set off the remaining crews. The migrants had set up their own minor radio network, so they were current on our activities.

This was an apple bubble. Small apple trees covered its inner surface, hardly more than bushes, loaded with ripe fruit. I saw that dry brush had been piled in one section, glistening with oil; the flick of a lighter would set it blazing, and the fire would be hard to stop because the brush extended to the trees; flame-dousing chemicals would damage the trees.

But if I could get John Henry to negotiate, I could get the rest. This was a crucial encounter.

This time I brought Joshua and Laredo with me. Both of them stood before the barricade and pleaded my case: I was Hispanic, I had been a picker, and I just wanted to help them get a fair settlement without violence.

"Yeah?" John Henry demanded. "We heard how those Navy dolls've been turning your heads, but I'm too old for that. If he was a picker, where's his song? You schnooks ever think of that?"

Joshua and Laredo fell back, dismayed. Of course, a Navy man could arrange to fight or pick; that didn't make him one of them. Had they been taken in?

Now I stepped out alone. I took off my hat and jacket and rolled back my sleeves as if preparing for a heroic effort. Then I sang:

It takes a worried man to sing a worried song...

 

"God Amighty!" someone cried. "Wasn't you with Joe Hill?"

That was the single break I needed. This was a large group with many old-timers, but Mondy had not been able to ascertain whether any had shared crews with me. The odds had been about two to one in my favor, but it had remained a gamble. It seemed one had been there—or at least had known of me.

"Yeah, I was with him," I agreed aggressively. "You got anything to say against Joe Hill?"

"He's dead!"

"Joe Hill never died!"

The man stared at me a moment, then nodded somberly. He knew what I meant. The spirit of Joe Hill lived in the striking laborers, as it had for centuries.

I finished my song, and some of them joined in. Then I started Joe Hill's song, and soon they were all singing. And John Henry was mine; of course, he had known of Joe Hill and what he stood for. I had shared Joe's life; I had rioted at his death. No better credits existed.

It was downhill after that. We picked up several more leaders without difficulty; the radio network was helping us now. It was the long shadow of Joe Hill that did it. I was still in his debt.

But I had to explain that the farmers remembered Joe, too, and that they still feared him; no way would they let a union get started. Not this year or next. That was their real balking point. The migrants could go for the Galaxy in other matters, if they yielded on this one.

The leaders greeted this with stony silence, as had the owners when I had mentioned how generous it would seem if they were to upgrade the working conditions in the domes. We had two unfortunately intractable sides here.

We rendezvoused with the yacht carrying the lawyers who represented the farmers. We were ready for our negotiation session.

"But first, if you don't mind, there is a little errand I have to do," I said. "Bear with me, please; it won't take long."

The migrant leaders and the farmer's lawyers were sullen; they were not at ease with each other. They had come to the meeting, but it was obvious that neither side cared to compromise. I had made an impression on the migrants, but that was personal; it would not persuade them to desert their fundamental interests. Good food and pretty girls can only accomplish so much. That was why we had scheduled this "errand."

We accelerated to one of the derelict bubbles. I did not explain what the errand was, and our guests did not inquire.

Our ship oriented on the bubble. "Has there been any change?" I inquired of my Exec gravely, in the presence of my guests, as the viewscreens were activated to show the bubble.

"None, sir," Emerald replied as gravely. She was in full uniform, very severe.

"No response to our final communication?"

"No, sir." She looked grim indeed.

I frowned. "Unfortunate." I made a small sigh of resignation. "Well, it has to be done. Proceed with the alternative measure."

The image of the bubble magnified on the screen, becoming quite clear to our guests. They watched. They had nothing else to do at the moment. They did not know this was a derelict.

"Fire one missile," Emerald said clearly into her mike.

Our ship rocked as the missile was launched.

A lawyer looked about, startled. "Missile?"

"Do not be concerned," I reassured him. "This is an incidental action."

The planet buster struck the bubble. It detonated. There was a brilliant flash, prevented from being blinding only by the automatic dampers on the viewscreen. From the flash emerged a cloud of debris, fragments flying outward in an expanding kaleidoscopic pattern. It was one devastatingly beautiful explosion.

"The—you—" the lawyer exclaimed, for once failing in eloquence.

"Let's hope such discipline does not again become necessary," I said somberly. "I dislike certain measures, but I learned long ago not to indulge in half-measures." I turned to our guests. "My apologies for this delay. Now let's get on with the negotiations. I'm sure something can be worked out."

"But that bubble!" Joshua exclaimed. "You blew it apart!"

I shrugged. "Sometimes my hand is forced." Then I paused, as if realizing something. "This is not one of your bubbles, of course. You are cooperating. We were not able to obtain representation from either side from this one. Naturally I would not discipline a bubble involved in honest negotiation."

The migrants looked at each other, then at the lawyers. The two parties seemed to draw closer together. "In your resumé," a lawyer said cautiously to me, "there is a reference to the slaying of a number of pirates, when you were a refugee—"

"They were criminals. That's ancient history."

"You ain't changed much," Laredo muttered.

The lawyer glanced again at the dissipating cloud, unwilling to accept the implication, but shaken. He licked his lips nervously. "Perhaps we should get on with it."

"By all means," I agreed heartily. "Now let me summarize the points at issue. As I understand it there are three. Working conditions—"

"Can be upgraded," a lawyer said quickly, glancing at the others for confirmation. "The farmers are not unmindful of the practical comforts of the workers. They are willing to provide better food, and to space the working hours for greater worker convenience. Internal discipline can be ameliorated or placed directly in the hands of the migrant foremen. There really is no problem there, so long as the work is properly done."

"Excellent," I said. "I was sure your employers were reasonable men. Now the workers say they want a union—"

"Uh, if we get what else we want, maybe the union can wait," John Henry said, his eyes also on the dissipating cloud, and the others nodded agreement. "One thing at a time, I always say." It was amazing how readily peripheral elements could be dispensed with when the hint of violent destruction was made. Civilians were not inured to such measures. I had obliquely shown them my power.

"Excellent," I repeated. "It is generous of you to postpone such a heartfelt issue. We all remember Joe Hill." I took a measured breath. "Now the central issue: the rate of pay for work performed. Now this does appear low compared to the prevailing Jupiter scales—"

"This is not Jupiter," a lawyer said. "Minimum-wage scale does not apply—"

"Yet," John Henry said meaningfully.

"Our clients have formidable problems of supply and transportation that make the standard scales inapplicable."

"Yeah, they prefer slave labor," Laredo said.

"The migrants work voluntarily!" the lawyer snapped.

"We ain't working now," John Henry said.

"We volunteer to work instead of starve," Joshua said. "That is not much choice, my friend."

"Pardon me for interrupting," I said. "But would it be fair to say that the migrants would be satisfied with a higher rate of pay per bucket, nothing else? No unemployment insurance, medical coverage, retirement benefits—"

"Retirement benefits!" the lawyer exclaimed, appalled, while the eyes of the migrant leaders widened with appreciation. They had not thought to try for anything like this!

"I understand your problems of supply and shipment," I said to the lawyers. "We have them in the Navy, too. Let's concentrate on the central thing: the pay per bucket picked. If you pay the workers more, you will have to raise your prices in Jupiter, putting you at a competitive disadvantage."

"Exactly! We compete with pseudo-produce, and there are cut-rate imports from Uranus and Saturn—"

"But you see, the workers' rate has not changed in years, while the cost of living has," I pointed out. "The workers are being severely squeezed. That is why they are restive. If you gave them more to work for, you could save some of the cost by reducing your supervisory personnel, that we all know are really guards. Satisfied workers reduce your overhead."

"Well, if we could afford—"

"Suppose you key the workers' pay to the retail price of the produce?" I suggested. "That would alleviate the criticism some make that the farmers ignore the increasing cost of living of the workers while increasing their prices."

The farmers, and therefore their lawyers, were quite sensitive to such criticism. "Well, we have no objection in principle—"

"Perhaps five percent," I said.

"Five percent!" a lawyer exclaimed indignantly. "Preposterous!"

"Normally, as I understand it," I said, "the fee for a significant service rendered, one necessary to business, is ten percent or more. Five percent seems modest enough, considering the importance of the service."

"But it has never been done before!"

"We are all progressive people, willing to try new things when the old ones prove inadequate," I said blithely. "This is, after all, the twenty-seventh century. Suppose the arrangement is publicly posted: Of each dollar retail price, five cents is allocated for the picker."

"But the men will not work, if it is not tied to the bucket!"

"Tie it to the bucket, then. If a bucket contains one hundred peppers whose retail value is five cents per pepper, or five dollars to the bucket, the picker gets twenty-five cents."

"Twenty-five cents!" the lawyer cried as if in pain. "That's two and a half times the present rate!"

I shrugged. "I suppose we could publicize the fact that the farmers are unwilling to allocate more than two percent for harvesting, while paying more than that to keep discipline among the distressed workers, and see how the Jupiter public reacts. Perhaps the public will agree this is fair."

The lawyers blanched, knowing the outrage such statistics would incite on civilized Jupiter. "Perhaps three percent, which would represent a fifty percent improvement in—" one began.

I glanced at him. "What is the basis for your own fee for services rendered?"

The man backed off hastily. "Perhaps if the percentage was publicly posted, so the consumer would know the reason for the increase in price—"

"I think it might appear unpatriotic for the buying public to refuse to pay a few extra cents to allow the pickers a living wage," I said. "I doubt you would lose much in sales—if that were the extent of the increase."

The lawyers pondered. They knew the farmers would not object to a settlement that successfully passed along the added cost to the public. But I suspected that when the time came to publicize the prices, the public would demand that the five percent be taken out of the original price, and the farmers would discover that they could, after all, afford it. Regardless, the principle of a fixed percentage for the pickers was the key to a long-term settlement. My staff had hashed this out beforehand and rehearsed me on it; I was not nearly as quick or informed as I appeared. That was the beauty of a good staff; it made the commander look good, when it was important that he do so.

That, essentially, was it. We made a temporary agreement, and the foremen promised to put their workers back in the fields, and the lawyers promised to allocate five percent. If the remaining migrants or the farmers did not ratify the agreement, the five percent would still hold for the work done during the temporary period. After that, the strike would resume. But we all knew it wouldn't come to that. We had worked it out.

We returned the migrant leaders to their bubbles, and picked up our girls. Joshua was right: The migrants were ready to sell what remained of their souls, after enjoying the hospitality of our lovely personnel. They would ratify.

Before we parted, Joshua spoke to me privately. "That bubble you blasted—rubber knives?"

"You're smarter than you look," I said.

"Thought so. You're not really a killer."

"Not of migrants," I agreed.

The agreement stood. There was no further violence. We got our blanket promotion: I advanced to full Commander, O5: Repro, Spirit, Emerald, and Mondy to Lieutenant Commanders, O4; and right on down to our lowest E2's becoming PFC's. We had gambled big, and won. And my name flashed across the Jupiter news of the day. Commander Hubris was momentarily famous.

And perhaps I had repaid Joe Hill for his kindness.