they get out of it I don’t know. Some of the old sand rats among us have picked up the habit from the Martians—but my entire botany class experimented with it under our teacher’s supervision and nobody got any thrill out of it, and all I got was blocked sinuses that wore off before the day was out. Strictly zero squared.
But with the native Venerians it is another matter—when they can get it. It turns them into murderous maniacs and they’ll do anything to get it. The (black market) price on it there is very high indeed . . . and possession of it by a human on Venus is at least an automatic life sentence to Saturn’s moons.
They buzzed around Clark like angry jetta wasps.
But they did not find what they were looking for. Shortly Uncle Tom spoke up and said, “Inspector? May I make a suggestion?”
“Eh? Certainly, Senator.”
“My nephew, I am sorry to say, has caused a disturbance. Why don’t you put him aside—chain him up, I would—and let all these other good people go through?”
The inspector blinked. “I think that is an excellent idea.”
“And I would appreciate it if you would inspect myself and my niece now. Then we won’t hold up the others.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” The inspector slapped seals on all of Uncle’s bags, closed the one of mine he had started to open, and said, “I don’t need to paw through the young lady’s pretties. But I think we’ll take this smart boy and search him to the skin and X-ray him.”
“Do that.”
So Uncle and I went on and checked at four or five other desks—fiscal control and migration and reservations and other nonsense—and finally wound up with our baggage at the centrifuge for weighing in. I never did get a chance to shop.
To my chagrin, when I stepped off the merry-go-round the record showed that my baggage and myself were nearly three kilos over my allowance, which didn’t seem possible. I hadn’t eaten more breakfast than usual—less actually—and I hadn’t drunk any water because, while I do not become ill in free fall, drinking in free fall is very tricky; you are likely to get water up your nose or something and set off an embarrassing chain reaction.
So I was about to protest bitterly that the weightmaster had spun the centrifuge too fast and produced a false mass reading. But it occurred to me that I did not know for surely certain that the scales Mother and I had used were perfectly accurate. So I kept quiet.
Uncle Tom just reached for his purse and said, “How much?”
The weightmaster said, “Mmm . . . let’s spin you first, Senator.”
Uncle Tom was almost two kilos under his allowance. The weightmaster shrugged and said, “Forget it, Senator. I’m minus on a couple of other things; I think I can swallow it. If not, I’ll leave a memo with the purser. But I’m fairly sure I can.”
“Thank you. What did you say your name was?”
“Milo. Miles M. Milo—Aasvogel Lodge number seventy-four. Maybe you saw our crack drill team at the Legion convention two years ago—I was left pivot.”
“I certainly did, I certainly did!” They exchanged that secret grip that they think other people don’t know and Uncle Tom said, “Well, thanks, Miles. Be seeing you.”
“Not at all—Tom. No, don’t bother with your baggage.” Mr. Milo touched a button and called out, “In the Tricorn! Get somebody out here fast for the Senator’s baggage.”
It occurred to me, as we stopped at the passenger tube sealed to the transfer station to swap our suction sandals for little magnet pads that clipped to our shoes, that we need not have waited for anything at anytime—if only Uncle Tom had been willing to use the special favors he so plainly could demand.
But, even so, it pays to travel with an important person—even though it’s just your Uncle Tom whose stomach you used to jump up and down on when you were small enough for such things. Our tickets simply read FIRST CLASS—I’m sure, for I saw all three of