She babbled on: “You didn’t get mixed up with any of those girls on Terra, did you? If you did, don’t tell me about it. All I care about is that you’re back. Oh, Conn, you don’t know how much I missed you. … Mother, Dad, doesn’t he look just splendid?”
Kurt Fawzi, a little thinner, his face more wrinkled, his hair grayer, shook his hand.
“I’m just as glad to see you as anybody, Conn,” he said, “even if I’m not being as demonstrative about it as Lynne. Judge, what do you think of our returned wanderer? Franz, shake hands with him, but save the interview for the News for later. Professor, here’s one student Litchfield Academy won’t need to be ashamed of.”
He shook hands with them—old Judge Ledue; Franz Veltrin, the newsman; Professor Kellton; a dozen others, some of whom he had not thought of in five years. They were all cordial and happy—how much, he wondered, because he was their neighbor, Conn Maxwell, Rodney Maxwell’s son, home from Terra, and how much because of what they hoped he would tell them? Kurt Fawzi, edging him out of the crowd, was the first to voice that.
“Conn, what did you find out?” he asked breathlessly. “Do you know where it is?”
Conn hesitated, looking about desperately; this was no time to start talking to Kurt Fawzi about it. His father was turning toward him from one side, and from the other Tom Brangwyn and Colonel Zareff were approaching more slowly, the older man leaning on a silver-headed cane.
“Don’t bother him about it now, Kurt,” Rodney Maxwell scolded the mayor. “He’s just gotten off the ship; he hasn’t had time to say hello to everybody yet.”
“But, Rod, I’ve been waiting to hear what he’s found out ever since he went away,” Fawzi protested in a hurt tone.
Brangwyn and Colonel Zareff joined them. They were close friends, probably because neither of them was a native of Poictesme.
The town marshal had always been reticent about his origins, but Conn guessed it was Hathor. Brangwyn’s heavy-muscled body, and his ease and grace in handling it, marked him as a man of a high-gravity planet. Besides, Hathor had a permanent cloud-envelope, and Tom Brangwyn’s skin had turned boiled-lobster red under the dim orange sunlight of Alpha Gartner.
Old Klem Zareff never hesitated to tell anybody where he came from—he was from Ashmodai, one of the System States planets, and he had commanded a division that had been blasted down to about regimental strength, in the Alliance army.
“Hello, boy,” he croaked, extending a trembling hand. “Glad you’re home. We all missed you.”
“We sure did, Conn,” the town marshal agreed, clasping Conn’s hand as soon as the old man had released it. “Find out anything definite?”
Kurt Fawzi looked at his watch. “Conn, we’ve planned a little celebration for you. We only had since day before yesterday, when the spaceship came into radio range, but we’re having a dinner party for you at Senta’s this evening.”
“You couldn’t have done anything I’d have liked better, Mr. Fawzi. I’d have to have a meal at Senta’s before really feeling that I’d come home.”
“Well, here’s what I have in mind. It’ll be three hours till dinner’s ready. Suppose we all go up to my office in the meantime. It’ll give the ladies a chance to go home and fix up for the party, and we can have a drink and a talk.”
“You want to do that, Conn?” his father asked, a trifle doubtfully. “If you’d rather go home first. …”
Something in his father’s voice and manner disturbed him vaguely; however, he nodded agreement. After a couple of drinks, he’d be better able to tell them.
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Fawzi,” Conn said. “I know you’re all anxious, but it’s a long story. This’ll be a good chance to tell you.”
Fawzi turned to his wife and daughter, interrupting himself to shout instructions to a couple of dockhands who were floating the baggage off the ship on a contragravity-lifter. Conn’s father had sent Charley off with a message to his mother and Flora.
Conn turned to Colonel Zareff. “I noticed extra workers coming out from the hiring agencies in Storisende, and the crop was all in across the Calders. Big wine-pressing this year?”
“Yes, we’re up to our necks in melons,” the old planter grumbled. “Gehenna of a big crop. Price’ll drop like a brick of collapsium, and this time next year we’ll be using brandy to wash our feet in.”
“If you can’t get good prices, hang onto it and age it. I wish you could see what the bars on Terra charge for a drink of ten-year-old Poictesme.”
“This isn’t Terra and we aren’t selling it by the drink. Only place we can sell brandy is at Storisende spaceport, and we have to take what the trading-ship captains offer. You’ve been on a rich planet for the last five years, Conn. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in a poorhouse. And that’s what Poictesme is.”
“Things’ll be better from now on, Klem,” the mayor said, putting one hand on the old man’s shoulder and the other on Conn’s. “Our boy’s home. With what he can tell us, we’ll be able to solve all our problems. Come on, let’s go up and hear about it.”
They entered the wide doorway of the warehouse on the dock-level floor of the Airport Building and crossed to the lift. About a dozen others had joined them, all the important men of Litchfield. Inside, Kurt Fawzi’s laborers were floating out cargo for the ship—casks of brandy, of course, and a lot of boxes and crates painted light blue and marked with the wreathed globe of the Terran Federation and the gold triangle of the Third Fleet-Army Force and the eight-pointed red star of Ordnance Service. Long cases of rifles, square boxes of ammunition, machine guns, crated auto-cannon and rockets.
“Where’d that stuff come from?” Conn asked his father. “You dig it up?”
His father chuckled. “That happened since
