Spartan Planet - A. Bertram Chandler [34]
And then, with even greater surprise, Brasidus realized that he was helping Margaret Lazenby into the hovercar. Even burdened as she was, she did not need his assistance, but she accepted it as her due. Brasidus climbed in after her, took his seat behind the control column. "Where to?" he asked.
"That's up to you. I'd like a good tour. No, not the city—shall be seeing plenty of that when I accompany John—Commander Grimes—on his official calls. What about the countryside and the outlying villages? Will that be in order?"
"It will, Peggy," Brasidus said. (And why should the use of that name be so pleasurable?)
"And if you'll explain things to me as you drive . . ."
The car lifted on its air cushion in a flurry of dust, moved forward, out through the main gateway, and for the first few miles headed toward the city.
"The spice fields," explained Brasidus with a wave of his hand. "It'll soon be harvest time, and then the two ships from Latterhaven will call for the crop."
"Rather . . . overpowering. The smell, I mean. Cinnamon, nutmeg, almond, but more so . . . And a sort of mixture of sage and onion and garlic. But those men working in the fields with hoes and rakes, don't you have mechanical cultivators?"
"But why should we? I suppose that machines could be devised, but such mechanical tools would throw the helots out of employment."
"But you'd enjoy vastly increased production and would be able to afford a greater tonnage of imports from Latterhaven."
"But we are already self-sufficient."
"Then what do you import from Latterhaven?"
Brasidus creased his brows. "I . . . I don't know, Peggy," he admitted. "We are told that the ships bring manufactured goods."
"Such as?"
"I don't know." Then he recalled the strange book that he had seen in the crèche. "Books, perhaps."
"What sort of books?"
"I don't know, Peggy. The doctors keep them for themselves. But we turn off here. We detour the city and run through the vineyards."
The road that they were now following was little more than a track, running over and around the foothills, winding through the terraced vineyards on either side. As far as the eye could see the trellises were sagging under the weight of the great, golden fruit, each at least the size of a man's head, the broad, fleshy leaves. Brasidus remarked, "This has been a good year for grapes."
"Grapes? Are those things grapes?"
"What else could they be?" Brasidus stopped the car, got out, scrambled up the slope to the nearest vine. With his knife he hacked through a tough stem, then carried the ripe, glowing sphere back to Peggy. She took it, hefted it in her two hands, peered at it closely, sniffed it. "Whatever this is," she declared, "it ain't no grape—not even a grapefruit. Something indigenous, I suppose. Is it edible?"
"No. It has to be . . . processed. Skinned, trodden out, exposed to the air in open vats. It takes a long time, but it gets rid of the poison."
"Poison? I'll take your word for it." She handed the fruit back to Brasidus, who threw it onto the bank. "Oh, I should have kept that, to take to the ship for analysis."
"I'll get it again for you."
"Don't bother. Let the biochemist do his own fetching and carrying. But have you any of the . . . the finished product? You did say that you had brought a flagon of wine with you."
"Yes, Peggy." Brasidus reached into the back of the car, brought up the stone jug, pulled out the wooden stopper.
"No glasses?" she asked with a lift of the eyebrows.
"Glasses?"
"Cups, goblets, mugs—things you drink out of."
"I . . . I'm sorry. I never thought . . ."
"You have a lot to learn, my dear. But show me how you manage when you haven't any women around to exercise a civilizing influence."
"Women?"
"People like me. Go on, show me."
Brasidus grinned, lifted the flagon in his two hands, tilted it over his open mouth, clear of his lips. The wine was rough, tart rather than sweet, but refreshing. He