Ron Merrill About *,*** words

[540-54-5913]

I thought it would be a semi-vacation, doing a deal among the Kluggs.

I'd just made a little over eight megas by setting up an export agreement for the South Pacific Confederation. Nobody else thought their neo-philosophical essay-novels would have any market outside the Aquatics. But I'd spotted an opportunity, based on my analysis of social trends on Mars. I bought the rights cheap and then started some word-of-mouth. Within a few weeks, a copy of the latest work by Analoa became a status symbol. I cleaned up.

The next step, of course, was a potlatch, which got me promoted to Second Rank, Fourth Level. So my account was pretty flat, and I figured I'd take it easy and pick up an easy half a mega or so to tide me over till I was ready for my next coup.

Of course, normally nobody would expect to find Kluggs creating anything worth selling. But going against the perceived wisdom is how you make money. My notion was that a dying species raised the possibility of scarcity value, maybe for primitive art.

I was disappointed right at the start when I researched the project. Klugg population had dropped dramatically during the first two centuries of the Human Radiation, as parents chose to re-gene their offspring to make them members of the advanced species. But then the decline had slowed, and the population stabilized. In fact there were still around 70 million members of original Homo sapiens left on Earth. They didn't look to be dying out in the near future.

I played with the hypertext for a while, but didn't see any business opportunities. Kluggs mostly stayed in their enclaves; a few were employed in menial jobs in various backwaters of the economy, according to the infobanks. Still, the only way to find real deals is to go in and investigate the situation on the ground. Besides, living in a Klugg enclave ought to be cheap, and it was getting to the point where I was having some difficulty keeping up appearances.

The Coosby enclave was located on the Pacific Coast of North America. I circled the place from the air a couple of times before landing. The dwellings, though fairly large, were crude and built on the surface, exposed to the weather, which was horrible, with almost constant rain. The landing field was small and apparently little used. I found an empty hangar without difficulty, got out, and ordered my machine to return to the rental agency. As it taxied back out onto the field, I turned to the door marked "Ground Transport." A vehicle was already waiting.

To my surprise, it was not robot-controlled. It had a human driver, the first Klugg I'd ever met in the flesh. He was a young man, not strikingly different from an Advanced, though of course I could see the signs at once when I looked for them. He was short, under two meters, and his head was not quite properly proportioned to his body.

"Where to, Sir?" he said, speaking very slowly.

"A local hostel, please," I said, taking care to speak equally slowly so he could understand me.

He opened the door for me, then put my bags in the back and took the wheel. I wasn't too comfortable about having my safety dependent upon his sluggish reflexes, particularly with the heavy rain factored in. However, he drove at a very slow pace, apparently keeping the speed to what he could handle.

An elderly Klugg woman checked me into the Baywatch Hostel, which was one of only three places in town and none too full even so. The room was less than a hecta a night, and just about worth it. It didn't bother me; I've spent time in highly ascetic cultures, on Titan and Luna, for example. In my business you learn to live like the locals. I stood for a while at the simple window, looking at the raindrops hitting the flat surface of the bay. A family of Aquatics surfaced, looked around for a while, then vanished under the water again.

The rain eased off to a light sprinkle and I decided to go for a walk and look around. Of course I could have accessed anything in Coosby by net from my room; for that matter, I could have virtualed it from a suite in one of our own cities. But I'm a believer in physical contact.

Apparently the Kluggs were too, judging from the number of physical shops on the main street. Then again, maybe they found it too expensive to virtual. I window-shopped for a while, seeing nothing of interest, till I came to a door marked "Pine Tree Gallery." It was a timely discovery, as the rain was starting again. I went in.

A Klugg woman was there, dusting a sculpture. She was young, just out of her teens by my estimate. She wore a simple white dress that displayed her poor taste. The cut of the garment actually accentuated her too-narrow hips--I'd read that Klugg females found it painful to give birth, and I could see why. Nor did her dress do anything to disguise her large breasts, and its wide shoulders made her small head look even smaller.

Mind you, I'm no puritan. I've had liasons with women of other species--a little perversion is the spice of life, as they say. Objectively, this female was no less physically attractive than, say, an Aquatic or a Spacedweller. No doubt she would look quite appealing to a Klugg male. But if I felt the faintest stirrings of interest, they immediately disappeared when I thought of what she was. What would people think of me if I had sex with a Klugg?

I let my eyes roam over the gallery. In ten seconds I'd taken the measure of the art displayed. All of it was originals, of course; if anyone wanted repros, they could get them off the net without leaving their homes. It was mostly paintings in old-fashioned media, though there were a few stained-neon photoglows. None of it showed any striking originality or talent, even by Klugg standards.

The girl came over to me. "May I help you, uh . . . Respected Fifth?"

I suppressed a surge of annoyance. My caste mark was clear to see on my forehead, of course--but she was only a stupid Klugg, no sense getting angry with her.

"Fourth," I said slowly and distinctly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I don't get much practice; nobody here has status, of course. My apologies, Respected Fourth."

She didn't seem really contrite, but I had no desire to wait through the slow delivery of a long speech of apology anyway. I was finding that communicating with Kluggs could be frustrating. They weren't actually that slow; it took them perhaps fifty percent longer than an Advanced to say something; but that was enough, I found, to be quite irritating in any kind of prolonged conversation.

"Very well," I replied, holding down the speed of my own speech. "Do you own this gallery?" I asked.

"No, it belongs to my father. Do you see anything you like?"

"Actually, I'm not shopping for myself. I'm in the export trade." I handed her a business disk.

She read off my name from the label, and set the disk aside with an expression that made me wonder if she had a modern enough machine to read it. I went on anyway.

"Is this work typical of local artists?"

"Oh, yes. Before this enclave was formed, there was quite an artist's colony on the coast south of here. When the Advanced took over those towns, most of the artists moved up here. Of course most of the famous ones quit working, since they couldn't compete with the Advanced artists. But there's still a tradition of people who do art just for their own satisfaction, and I guess most of them live in this enclave."

"And they find customers enough to support a gallery."

"Oh, there are several galleries here in Coosby. We get customers from other enclaves, too. We Kluggs mostly prefer work by our own kind; Advanced art is over our heads," she said matter-of-factly.

That rocked me a bit, though of course I didn't show it. She was not being sarcastic or resentful; she admitted inferiority, and used the term "Klugg" to refer to herself, without the slightest self-consciousness. There was something strange here.

I set that aside for the time being and got back to business. I asked how many artists they represented, and inquired about other galleries. Some mental arithmetic quickly convinced me that the production capacity of the Klugg artists, even allowing for their no doubt slow work, could quickly saturate the market even if I could generate a fad for the art based on its scarcity rather than its intrinsic value. Unless I could organize some sort of cartel . . .

That, I realized as I talked to the girl, would be difficult. I had checked on the legalities before coming; there were no formal restrictions on trade between Advanced and Kluggs. The Convention of 2142 had guaranteed that they would not be molested in their enclaves, in return for their renunciation of any subsidy. It was their responsibility to support themselves. However, commerce was obviously limited. And, reading between the lines as I listened to the girl, it became clear that suspicion of business dealings with the Advanced was strong. Kluggs had lost the Kansas City enclave decades before in a complex transaction in which some Advanced investors had picked up almost the whole city for a song. That had been taken to heart and Kluggs, I realized, would be very reluctant to do any but the simplest and safest deals with an Advanced.

After some talk the girl, whose name, I learned, was Patsy Gunnar, said, "You know, you should talk to my father. He's the Deputy Mayor, and he knows all sorts of people, not just here but in the other enclaves. He might be able to give you some useful suggestions. Why don't you have dinner with us?"

Presently, after making a couple of calls, she closed the gallery and drove us through the rain, which was now a heavy downpour, to her home. She had to arrive early, she explained, to start cooking dinner. Her father was a widower. I made a mental note about the absence of robot kitchens, as well as the primitive attitudes implied by her casual assumption that cooking meals was a woman's job.

The living room displayed almost as much art on the walls as the gallery. A glance showed me that it was generally of no higher quality. The girl excused herself to go to the kitchen, explaining that her father would be home soon, and that her fiance was coming also.

"One question before you go. How is your father addressed?"

She looked puzzled. "He lives here, of course."

"No. I mean, what's his title when I speak to him?"

"Oh-- But I told you, nobody has status here. He's just plain Mr. Gunnar."

She headed for the kitchen, but reappeared in a few minutes to admit her fiance. He introduced himself as John March, and got my rank correct the first time--having been briefed by the girl when she phoned him, I deduced from his slightly bemused expression. Patsy having declined his offer to help in the kitchen, he sat down to make small talk with me.