Astounding British Edition, Volume 8, No. 11 — page 48: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

46 self still unmolested, by morning. Wander- ing around the spaceport, he saw WeJan, but the man had developed a sudden lapse of memory. He failed to recognize the Cophian visitor. With the Solarians gone, Roki grew bolder in his questioning. “How often do the Solarians visit you?” he inquired of a desk clerk at Administra- tion. “Wheffever a hospital places an order, sir. Not often. Every six months perhaps.” “That’s all the traffic they have with Tragor?” “Yes, sir. This is our only interstellar port.” “Do the supplies pass through your govern- ment channels?” The clerk looked around nervously. “Uh, no sir. They refuse to deal through our government. They contact their customers directly. The government lets them because the supplies are badly needed.” Roki stabbed out bluntly. “What do you think of the Solarians?” The clerk looked blank for a moment, then chuckled. “I don’t know, myself. But if you want a low opinion, ask at the space- port cafe.” “Why? Do they cause trouble there?” “No, sir. They bring their own lunches, so to speak. They eat and sleep aboard ship, and won’t spend a thin galak around town.” Roki turned away and went back to the Idiot. Somewhere in his mind, an idea was. refusing to let itself be believed. A mercy ship visited Tragor every six months. Roki had seen the scattered, ruined cargo of such a ship, and he had estimated it at about four thousand pints of blood, six thousand pounds of frozen bone, and seven thousand pounds of various replaceable organs and tissues. That tonnage in itself was-not so startling, but if Sol III supplied an equal amount twice annually to even a third of the twenty-eight thousand civilized worlds in the galaxy, a numbing question arose: where did they get their raw material? Surgibank supplies were normally obtained by contributions from accident victims who lived long enough to volun- tarily contribute their undamaged organs to a good cause, Charitable organizations tried to secure pledges from men in dangerous jobs, donat- ing their bodies to the planet’s surgibank in the event of death. But no man felt easy about signing over his kidneys or his liver to the bank, and such recruiters were less popular than hangmen or life insurance ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION agents. Mercy supplies were quite under- standably scarce. The grim question lingered in Roki’s mind: where did the Sol III traders find between three and five million healthy accident victims annually? Perhaps they made the accidents themselves, accidents very similar to those occurring at the end of the chute in the slaughterhouse. He shook his head, refusing to believe it. No planet’s population, however terrorized by its rulers, could endure such a thing with- out generating a sociological explosion that would make the world quiver in its orbit. There was a limit to the endurance of tyranny. He spent the rest of the week asking innocent questions here and there about the city. He learned nearly nothing. The Solarians came bearing their peculiar cargo, . sold it quickly at a good price, purchased fissionable materials, and blasted-off without a civil word to anyone. Most men seemed nervous in their presence, perhaps because of their bulk and their native arrogance. — When the base personnel finished install- ing the synchronizers, he decided the time had come to secure Daleth Incorporated from the local jail. Sometimes he had chided himself for leaving her there after the Solarians had blasted-off, but it seemed to be the best place to keep the willful wench out of trouble. Belatedly, as he rode toward the police station, he wondered what sort of mayhem she would attempt to com- mit on his person for leaving her to fume in a cell. His smile was rueful as he marched in to pay her fine. The man behind the desk frowned sharply. “Who did you say?” he grunted. “The foreign woman from the Dalethian Ship.” The officer studied his records. “Ah, yes —Talewa Walkeka the name?” . Roki realized he didn’t know her name. She was still Daleth Incorporated. “From the Daleth Ship,” he insisted, “Yes. Talewa Walkeka—she was released into the custody of Eli Roki on twoday of last spaceweek.” “That’s imposs—’ Roki choked and whitened. “I am Eli Roki. Was the man a Solarian?” “T don’t recall.” “Why don’t you? Didn’t you ask him for identification?” < “Stop bellowing, please,” said the official coldly. “And get your fists off my desk.” The Cophian closed his eyes and tried to SGonmcoooks.co — im