“He took an awful chance,” Kivelson said. “He might of shot Mr. Murell.”
I suppose it would look that way to Joe. He is the planet’s worst pistol shot, so according to him nobody can hit anything with a pistol.
“He wouldn’t have taken any chance not shooting,” I said. “If he hadn’t, we’d have been running the Murell story with black borders.”
Another man came up, skinny, red hair, sharp-pointed nose. His name was Al Devis, and he was Joe Kivelson’s engineer’s helper. He wanted to know about the tread-snail shooting, so I had to go over it again. I hadn’t anything to add to what Tom had told them already, but I was the Times, and if the Times says so it’s true.
“Well, I wouldn’t want any drunk like Bish Ware shooting around me with a pistol,” Joe Kivelson said.
That’s relative, too. Joe doesn’t drink.
“Don’t kid yourself, Joe,” Oscar told him. “I saw Bish shoot a knife out of a man’s hand, one time, in One Eye Swanson’s. Didn’t scratch the guy; hit the blade. One Eye has the knife, with the bullet mark on it, over his back bar, now.”
“Well, was he drunk then?” Joe asked.
“Well, he had to hang onto the bar with one hand while he fired with the other.” Then he turned to me. “How is Murell, now?” he asked.
I told him what the hospital had given us. Everybody seemed much relieved. I wouldn’t have thought that a celebrated author of whom nobody had ever heard before would be the center of so much interest in monster-hunting circles. I kept looking at my watch while we were talking. After a while, the Times newscast came on the big screen across the room, and everybody moved over toward it.
They watched the Peenemünde being towed down and berthed, and the audiovisual interview with Murell. Then Dad came on the screen with a record player in front of them, and gave them a playoff of my interview with Leo Belsher.
Ordinary bad language I do not mind. I’m afraid I use a little myself, while struggling with some of the worn-out equipment we have at the paper. But when Belsher began explaining about how the price of wax had to be cut again, to thirty-five centisols a pound, the language those hunters used positively smelled. I noticed, though, that a lot of the crowd weren’t saying anything at all. They would be Ravick’s boys, and they would have orders not to start anything before the meeting.
“Wonder if he’s going to try to give us that stuff about substitutes?” Oscar said.
“Well, what are you going to do?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you what we’re not going to do,” Joe Kivelson said. “We’re not going to take his price cut. If he won’t pay our price, he can use his [deleted by censor] substitutes.”
“You can’t sell wax anywhere else, can you?”
“Is that so, we can’t?” Joe started.
Before he could say anything else, Oscar was interrupting:
“We can eat for a while, even if we don’t sell wax. Sigurd Ngozori’ll carry us for a while and make loans on wax. But if the wax stops coming in, Kapstaad Chemical’s going to start wondering why. …”
By this time, other Javelin men came drifting over—Ramón Llewellyn, the mate, and Abdullah Monnahan, the engineer, and Abe Clifford, the navigator, and some others. I talked with some of them, and then drifted off in the direction of the bar, where I found another hunter captain, Mohandas Gandhi Feinberg, whom everybody simply called the Mahatma. He didn’t resemble his namesake. He had a curly black beard with a twisted black cigar sticking out of it, and nobody, after one look at him, would have mistaken him for any apostle of nonviolence.
He had a proposition he was enlisting support for. He wanted balloting at meetings to be limited to captains of active hunter-ships, the captains to vote according to expressed wishes of a majority of their crews. It was a good scheme, though it would have sounded better if the man who was advocating it hadn’t been a captain himself. At least, it would have disenfranchised all Ravick’s permanently unemployed “unemployed hunters.” The only trouble was, there was no conceivable way of getting it passed. It was too much like trying to curtail the powers of Parliament by act of Parliament.
The gang from the street level started coming up, and scattered in twos and threes around the hall, ready for trouble. I’d put on my radio when I’d joined the Kivelsons and Oscar, and I kept it on, circulating around and letting it listen to the conversations. The Ravick people were either saying nothing or arguing that Belsher was doing the best he could, and if Kapstaad wouldn’t pay more than thirty-five centisols, it wasn’t his fault. Finally, the call bell for the meeting began clanging, and the crowd began sliding over toward the elevators and escalators.
The meeting room was on the floor above, at the front of the building, beyond a narrow hall and a door at which a couple of Ravick henchmen wearing guns and sergeant-at-arms brassards were making everybody check their knives and pistols. They passed me by without getting my arsenal, which consisted of a sleep-gas projector camouflaged as a jumbo-sized lighter and twenty sols in two rolls of forty quarter sols each. One of these inside a fist can make a big difference.
Ravick and Belsher and the secretary of the Coop, who was a little scrawny henpecked-husband type who never had an opinion of his own in his life, were all sitting back of a big desk on a dais in front. After as many of the crowd who could had found seats and the rest, including the Press, were standing in the rear, Ravick pounded with the chunk of monster tusk he used for a gavel and called
