Astounding Science Fiction (UK Edition) — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

THE IRON STANDARD By LEWIS PADGETT Padgett presents a neat problem in how to earn a living in a rigidly frozen economy. The explorers had inven- tions to sell—but there was a law against inventions! *So the ghost won't walk for a year— Venusian time,” Thirkell said, spooning up cold beans with a disgusted air. Rufus Munn, the captain looked up briefly from his task of de-cockroaching the soup. “Dunno why we had to import these. A year plus four weeks, Steve. There'll be a month at space before we hit Earth again.” Thirkell’s round, pudgy face grew solemn. “What happens in the meantime? Do we starve on cold beans?” Munn sighed, glancing through the open, screened port of the space ship Goodwill to where dim figures moved in the mists out- side. But he didn’t answer. Barton Under- hill, supercargo and handy man, who had wangled his passage by virtue of his father’s wealth, grinned tightly and said, ‘What d’you expect? We don’t dare use fuel. There’s just enough to get us home. So it’s cold beans or nothing.” “Soon it will be nothing,” Thirkell said solemnly. “We have been _ spendthrifts. Wasting our substance in riotous living.” “Riotous living’ Munn growled. “We gave most of our. grub to the Venusians.” “Well,” Underhill murmured, “they fed us—for a month.” “Not now. There’s an embargo. What do they have against us, anyhow?” Munn thrust back his stool with sudden decision. “That’s something we'll have to figure out. Things can’t go on like this. We simply haven’t enough food to last us a year. And we can’t live off the land—” He stopped as someone unzipped the valve screen and entered, a squat man with high cheekbones and a beak of a nose in a red- bronze face. “Find anything, Redskin?” Underhill asked. Mike Soaring Eagle tossed a plastisac on the table. “Six mushrooms. No wonder the Venusians use hydroponics. They have to. Only fungi will grow in this sponge of a world, and most of that’s poisonous. No use, skipper.” 32 - Munn’s mouth tightened. ““Yeah. Where’s Bronson?” “Panhandling. But he won’t get a fal.” The Navaho nodded toward the port. “Here he comes now.” After a moment the others heard Bron- son’s slow footsteps. The engineer came in, his face red as his hair. “Don’t ask me,” he murmured. “Don’t say a word, anybody. Me, a Kerry man, trying to bum a lousy fal from a shagreen-skinned so-and-so with an iron ring in his nose like a Ubangi savage. Think of it! The shame will stay with me forever.” — “My sympathy,” Thirkell said. “But did you get any fals?” Bronson glared at him. “Would I have taken his dirty coins if he’d offered them?” the engineer yelled, his eyes bloodshot. “I'd have flung them in his slimy face, and you can take my word for it. J touch their rotten money? Give me some beans.” He seized ‘a plate and morosely began to eat. Thirkell exchanged glances with Under- hill. “He didn’t get any money,” the latter said. Bronson started back with a snort. “He asked me if I belonged to the Beggars’ Guild! Even tramps have to join a union on this planet!” Captain Munn_ scowled thoughtfully. “No, it isn’t a union, Bronson, or even much like the medieval guilds. The tarkomars are a lot more powerful and a lot less prin- cipled. Unions grew out of a definite social and economic background, and they fill a purpose—a check-and-balance system that keeps building. I’m not talking about unions; on Earth some of ’em are good— like the Air Transport—and some are graft- ridden, like Undersea Dredgers. The tarko- mars are different. They don’t fulfill any productive purpose. They just keep the Venusian system in its backwater.” “Yes,” Thirkell said, “and unless we're members, we aren’t allowed to work—at anything. And we can’t be members till we conmilcbooo S (©