To Prime the Pump - A. Bertram Chandler [31]
"There are quite a few of us, Marlene. But microfilmed editions aren't the same as real books."
"You'll find plenty of real books on this world. Every home has its library."
"You've room here, on this world."
"There's room on every planet but Earth for people to live as they should. But your average colonist, what does he do? He builds cities and huddles in almost exact replicas of Terran slums."
"You aren't average?"
"Too bloody right we're not. And we were determined when we purchased El Dorado that overpopulation would never become one of our problems. But . . ."
"But?"
"But once people start dying, that will be the start of the reverse process . . ." Then a laugh dispelled her somber expression. "However did we get started on this morbid subject? And what sort of hostess am I?" Her voice suddenly became that of the guide of a conducted tour. "Slightly ahead, and to our right, you will see the Croesus Mines. They constitute the only fully automated mining operation in the Galaxy . . ."
Grimes looked. There was nothing to indicate the nature of the industrial process. There were no roads, no railways, no towering chimneys, no ugly pithead gear. There was only a low, spotlessly white building in a shallow green valley.
"Everything," the girl went on, "is subterranean, including the rail communication with our few factories and with the spaceport. We do not believe in ruining the scenery of our planet while there is ample space underground for industry. Now, coming up on our left, we see the Laredo Ranch. It is not as fully automated as it might be, but you must understand that Senator Crocker, the owner, enjoys the open air life. It irks him, he says, that he must use robot cowboys for his roundups; but that, on this world, is unavoidable . . ."
Grimes, looking out and down, saw a solitary horseman riding toward a herd of red-brown cattle. Crocker, he supposed, making do without his despised mechanical aides.
"Count Vitelli's vineyard. His wines are not bad, although they are only a hobby with him. There is some local consumption and considerable export. Most of us, of course, prefer imported vintages."
"You would," said Grimes sharply.
She looked at him in a rather hostile manner, then grinned. "And you, John, would say just that. But this is our world. We like it, and we can afford it."
"Money doesn't always bring happiness, Marlene."
"Perhaps not. But we can be miserable in comfort."
"Luxury, you mean."
"All right, luxury. And why the hell not?"
To this there was no answer. Grimes stared ahead, saw on a hilltop a grim, gray castle that was straight out of a book of Teutonic mythology. "Your Schloss?" he asked.
"My what?" She laughed. "Your pronunciation, my dear. You'd better stick to English. Yes, that is Castle Stolzberg, and in the forests around it I hunt the stag and the boar."
"Is that all you do?"
"Of course not. As you know very well I am fond of aquatic sports. And I am serving my term on the Committee of Management."
"And who lives there with you?"
"Nobody. I entertain sometimes, but at the moment I have no guests. With the exception, of course, of yourself."
"And you mean to tell me that that huge building is for one person?"
"Isn't it time that you started to lose your petty-bourgeois ideas, John? I warn you, if you start spouting Thorsten Veblen at me on the subject of conspicuous waste I shall lose my temper. And as for Marxism, there just isn't any exploited proletariat on El Dorado, with the exception of the lower deck ratings aboard your ship."
"They aren't exploited. Anyhow, what about the people on the other worlds who've contributed to your fantastically high standard of living?"
"They were happy enough to buy us out, and they're happy enough to buy our exports. And, anyhow, you're a spaceman, not a politician or an economist. Just relax, can't you? Just try to be good company while you're my guest, otherwise I'll return you to your transistorized sardine can."
"I'll try," said Grimes. "When in Rome, and all the rest of it. I shall endeavor to be the noblest