Astounding Science Fiction (UK Edition) — page 64: what you’re looking at

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

62 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION merely an administrator, however. I have no real power. I do what I’m told to do. If I were permitted, I would be glad to lend you the money you need—” “What?” Munn looked at thought—” The woman froze. “Tt is not permitted. Tradition is not always wisdom, but I can do nothing about it. To defy the tarkomars is unthinkable and useless. I am sorry.” Munn felt a little better after that, some- how. The Venusians weren’t all enemies. The all-powerful tarkomars, jealous of their power, fanatically desirous of preserving the Status quo, were responsible for this mess. When he got back to the plaza, the others were waiting. Bronson had rigged up a scoreboard, in phonetic Venusian, and had laid out mattock, pick, shovel, wheelbarrow and boards for the Navaho, who stood, a brawny, red-bronze figure, stripped to the waist in the cool wind. A few canalboats had stopped to watch. Munn looked at his watch. “O.K., Red- skin. Let’s go. Steve can start—” Underhill began to beat a drum. Bronson put figures on the scoreboard: 4:03:00, Venusian Vyring Time. Thirkell went to a nearby camp table, littered with bottles and medical equipment, shook from a vial one of the stimulant pills he had concocted, and gave it to Mike Soaring Eagle. The Indian ate it, heaved up the mattock, and went to work. That was all. A man digging a hole. Just why the spectacle should be so fascinating no one has ever figured out. The principle remains the same, whether it’s a steam shovel scoop- ing out half a ton of earth at a bite, or a sweating, stocky Navaho wielding shovel and pick. The boats grew thicker. Mike Soaring Eagle kept working. An hour passed. Another. There were regular, brief rest periods, and Mike kept rotating his tools, to get all his muscles into play. After breaking earth for a while with the mattock, he would shovel it into the wheel- barrow, roll his burden. up a plank and dump it on an ever-growing pile some dis- tance away. Three hours. Four. Mike knocked off for a brief lunch. Bronson kept track of the time on his scoreboard. Thirkell gave the Navaho another pill. “How’re you doing?” “Fine. I’m tough enough.” “I know, but these stimulants—they’ll help.” Underhill was at a typewriter. her. “I He had already ground out a tremendous lot of copy, for he had been working since Mike Soaring Eagle started. Bronson had dis- covered a long-forgotten talent and was juggling makeshift Indian clubs and colored balls. He’d been keeping that up for quite a while, too. Captain Rufus Munn was working a sew- ing machine. He didn’t especially like the task, but it was precision work, and there- fore helpful to the plan. All the party except Thirkell was doing something, and the physician was busy administering pills and trying to look like an alchemist. Occasionally he visited Munn and Under- hill, collected stacks of paper and carefully sewn scraps of cloth, and deposited them in various boxes near the canal, labeled, “Take one.” On the cloth a legend was machine-embroidered in Venusian: “A Souvenir from Earth.” The crowds thickened. The Earthmen worked on. Bronson kept juggling, with pauses for refreshment. Eventually he experimented with coin and card tricks. Mike Soaring Eagle kept dig- ging. Munn sewed. Underhill continued to type—and the Venusians read what his flying fingers turned out. . “Free! Free! Free!’? the leaflets said. “Souvenir pillowcase covers from Earth! A free show! Watch the Earthmen demon- strate stamina, dexterity and precision in four separate ways. How long can they keep it up? With the aid of POWER PILLS —indefinitely! Their output is doubled and their precision increased by POWER PILLS —they pep you up! A medical product of Earth that can make any man worth twice his weight in sofals!” It went on like that. The old army game —with variations. The Venusians couldn't resist. Word got around. The mob thickened. How long could | the Earthmen keep up the pace? They kept it up. Thirkell’s stimulant pills —as well as the complex shots he had given his companions that morning—seemed to be working. Mike Soaring Eagle dug like a beaver. Sweat poured from his shining red-bronze torso. He drank prodigiously and ate salt tablets. Munn kept sewing, without missing a stitch. He knew that his products were being scanned closely for signs of sloppy work- manship. Bronson kept juggling and doing coin tricks, never missing. Underhill typed with aching fingers. Ccomiclbooks.c©