O Pioneer!

XXIV

The decision to go to the Pole was made. Implementing the decision was harder. The first thing Giyt tried was polling the other mayors about revising the passenger list for the polar rocket.

He didn’t get very far. The mayors weren’t hostile, exactly, but they were clearly unwilling to get into a dispute between Earth humans. Even Mrs. Brownbenttalon was no help. “Could gladly give to you Centaurian seats if available, Large Male Giyt,” she said, “but fact is, got no Centaurians going this trip or not next trip either, too. Wait. I maybe try Kalkaboos.”

What she tried was to call the Kalkaboo High Champion on her own to see if he could be got to turn a seat loose. That didn’t work, either. Downcast, she reported: “New Kalkaboo High Champion no better than old Kalkaboo High Champion. Talk much, do little. Say always permanently willing helping out good friend and assassin of predecessor who has made amends therefore, Earth-human Giyt, but not in this particular case. Say friend Giyt surely aware delegation of high persons from home planet presently present here and maybe would not be approving.”

“Well, he could ask them,” Giyt said.

“Certainly could. I spoke so also. He say not advisable, could cause problem. What sort problem he mean,” she added, “is maybe home planet bosses might be annoy, could think stinky new Kalkaboo High Champion not as good as stinky old one. Stupid, you think? Sure. But what you going do? Is how Kalkaboos are, mostly. Now let me try Delts.”

The Delts weren’t helpful, either. When Giyt had to report failure to his wife she was warmly sympathetic. “Look on the bright side, hon. Here are all these people that aren’t even human, and they do their best to help you—some of them, anyway.”

“A very few of them,” he grumbled. “And what the Delt said was that he’d do it in a minute, but the Slugs would have a fit because they’re naturally scum. I hate the way these people talk about each other.”

“Why? It’s just talk, Shammy.”

“It’s not the kind of talk I’m used to,” he insisted.

She sighed. “You’ve led a sheltered life, hon. When I was a kid in Newark, Mom was always making little jokes about the drunken Irish and the dumb Poles, and we all talked mean about the Protestants, and we and the Protestants never had a good word to say about the Afros or the Asians. Didn’t mean much. We kids all played together, and our parents all got together for the Fourth of July parade and the Christmas baskets for the poor. The eeties just talk that way, hon. They get along. They’ve been doing it for hundreds of years, you know, and never any big fights. Which is a lot more,” she added ruefully, “than you can say about any of our countries back on Earth,”

Giyt considered trying to stow away on the rocket—impossible—or just showing up at the launch pad and trying to bully his way aboard—just as impossible. Then he faced up to reality. He only had one alternative left. He had to swallow his pride and ask Hagbarth for help.

That wasn’t easy, and what made it harder still was that he couldn’t get Hagbarth on the screen; his personal access didn’t respond, and when Giyt tried the one for the Hagbarth house, it was jammed up. He would have to do it in person.

When he got to Hagbarth’s house he saw what the problem was. The cookout reception for the delegates was in full swing. He had to abandon his cart half a block away, because hundreds of people were swarming around the house. As he tried to pick his way through the crowd he got surprised looks from nearly everyone, some uneasily reluctant to meet his eyes, some staring at him with frank loathing. He was still a dozen meters from the front door when Hagbarth himself came steaming up. “What are you doing here, Giyt?” he demanded.

“I want to go to the Pole,” Giyt said.

Hagbarth didn’t laugh. He barely smiled—well, “sneered” might have been a better word, though he spoke mildly enough. “Can’t be done. Don’t you follow the weather reports? They had this big blizzard at the Pole. They’re still digging out. No time to have tourists.”

“I’ll take my chance.”

“Well, Giyt, you won’t. Not this time. There’s no room on the rocket. Don’t you pay any attention at the commission meetings? You guys allocated us two seats, and they have to go to highly qualified technicians just waiting for a ride; we need them on duty there, Giyt. The factory might break down without them. Maybe next time.”

“Which is when?”

“Well,” Hagbarth said reasonably, “how can I tell? You never know when some of these home-planet people might take it into their heads to bump everybody and go up and take a look for themselves. Maybe next week, maybe not. Now I’ve got guests to attend to.”

In the end, it wasn’t Hagbarth or any of the eeties he’d asked who gave Giyt help. It was Rina.

“Hon?” she said, coming into where he was bent over his screen again, sounding doubtful. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. It wouldn’t be comfortable, that’s for sure—”

“What wouldn’t?”

“Well, my friend—you know, the Petty-Prime female, the one that’s married to the horticulturist? You’ve seen her over here. Anyway, she says they’ve got space reserved for their whole family on the rocket. They’re willing to wait. So if you’re sure you really want to go there . . .”