I went to that and opened it, and got out a bulb of concentrated fruit juice and a bottle of carbonated water. Dad, who seldom drinks, keeps a few bottles around for guests. Seems most of our “guests” part with information easier if they have something like the locally made hydroponic potato schnapps inside them for courage.
“You drink Baldur honey-rum, don’t you, Bish?” he said, pawing among the bottles in the liquor cabinet next to the refrigerator. “I’m sure I have a bottle of it. Now wait a minute; it’s here somewhere.”
When Dad passes on and some medium claims to have produced a spirit communication from him, I will not accept it as genuine without the expression: “Now wait a minute; it’s here somewhere.”
Bish wanted to know what I was fixing for myself, and I told him.
“Never mind the rum, Ralph. I believe,” he said, “that I shall join Walt in a fruit fizz.”
Well, whattaya know! Maybe my stealthy temperance campaign was having results. Dad looked positively startled, and then replaced the bottle he was holding.
“I believe I’ll make it unanimous,” he said. “Fix me up a fruit fizz, too, Walt.”
I mixed two more fruit fizzes, and we carried them over to the table. Bish sipped at his critically.
“Palatable,” he pronounced it. “Just a trifle on the mild side, but definitely palatable.”
Dad looked at him as though he still couldn’t believe the whole thing. Dinner was slow coming. We finished our fizzes, and Bish and I both wanted repeats, and Dad felt that he had to go along. So I made three more. We were finishing them when Mrs. Laden started bringing in the dinner. Mrs. Laden is a widow; she has been with us since my mother died, the year after I was born. She is violently anti-liquor. Reluctantly, she condones Dad taking a snort now and then, but as soon as she saw Bish Ware, her face started to stiffen.
She put the soup on the table and took off for the kitchen. She always has her own dinner with Julio. That way, while they’re eating he can tell her all the news that’s fit to print, and all the gossip that isn’t.
For the moment, the odd things I’d been noticing about our distinguished and temporarily incapacitated visitor came under the latter head. I told Dad and Bish about my observations, beginning with the deafening silence about Glenn Murell at the library. Dad began popping immediately.
“Why, he must be an impostor!” he exclaimed. “What kind of a racket do you think he’s up to?”
“Mmm-mm; I wouldn’t say that, not right away,” Bish said. “In the first place, Murell may be his true name and he may publish under a nom de plume. I admit, some of the other items are a little suspicious, but even if he isn’t an author, he may have some legitimate business here and, having heard a few stories about this planetary Elysium, he may be exercising a little caution. Walt, tell your father about that tallow-wax we saw, down in Bottom Level Fourth Ward.”
I did, and while I was talking Dad sat with his soup spoon poised halfway to his mouth for at least a minute before he remembered he was holding it.
“Now, that is funny,” he said when I was through. “Why do you suppose … ?”
“Somebody,” Bish said, “some group of ship captains, is holding wax out from the Cooperative. There’s no other outlet for it, so my guess is that they’re holding it for a rise in price. There’s only one way that could happen, and that, literally, would be over Steve Ravick’s dead body. It could be that they expect Steve’s dead body to be around for a price rise to come in over.”
I was expecting Dad to begin spouting law-and-order. Instead, he hit the table with his fist; not, fortunately, the one that was holding the soup spoon.
“Well, I hope so! And if they do it before the Cape Canaveral gets in, they may fix Leo Belsher, too, and then, in the general excitement, somebody might clobber Mort Hallstock, and that’d be grand slam. After the triple funeral, we could go to work on setting up an honest cooperative and an honest government.”
“Well, I never expected to hear you advocating lynch law, Dad,” I said.
He looked at me for a few seconds.
“Tell the truth, Walt, neither did I,” he admitted. “Lynch law is a horrible thing; don’t make any mistake about that. But there’s one thing more horrible, and that’s no law at all. And that is the present situation in Port Sandor.
“You know what the trouble is, here? We have no government. No legal government, anyhow; no government under Federation law. We don’t even have a Federation Resident-Agent. Before the Fenris Company went broke, it was the government here; when the Space Navy evacuated the colonists, they evacuated the government along with them. The thousand who remained were all too busy keeping alive to worry about that. They didn’t even care when Fenris was reclassified from Class III, uninhabited but inhabitable, to Class II, inhabitable only in artificial environment, like Mercury or Titan. And when Mort Hallstock got hold of the town-meeting pseudo government they put together fifty years ago and turned it into a dictatorship, nobody realized what had happened till it was too late. Lynch law’s the only recourse we have.”
“Ralph,” Bish told him, “if anything like that starts, Belsher and Hallstock and Ravick won’t be the only casualties. Between Ravick’s goons and Hallstock’s police, they have close to a hundred men. I won’t deny that they could be cleaned out, but it wouldn’t be a lynching. It would be a civil war.”
“Well, that’s swell!” Dad said. “The Federation Government has never paid us any attention; the Federation planets are scattered over too many million
