F Paul Wilson - LaNague 02 by Wheels Within Wheels (v5.0) Page B

taxes,
trade bureaus, commerce commissions, sales taxes–”
                “Sales
taxes! What are they?” Tella asked with an amused smile.
                “That’s a
new one on you, is it? You’ve heard of the income tax, of course. Most
outworlds have it in some form or another. That’s the way the politicos get
your money as it enters your pocket. And when they’ve taxed that to the limit
the populace will tolerate, they go to work on finding ways to get a piece of
what’s left of your money as it comes out of your pocket. That’s called a sales
tax: you pay a tribute to the current regime every time you buy something.”
                Jo shook
her head in disbelief. “I find it incredible that any population would put up
with such abuse. There’d be rioting in the streets here on Ragna if anyone
tried to foist that kind of nonsense on us!”
                “Don’t
count on it. As that famous Earth philosopher Muniz put it a long time ago:
‘The masses are asses.’ And while I don’t subscribe to such a cynical, elitist
point of view, I fear he may have been right. I never cease to be amazed at
what people will put up with if it’s presented to them in a pretty package.
These tax schemes are always preceded by a propaganda blitz or by a financial
crisis that has been either manufactured or caused by the bureaucracy itself.
The ‘public good’ is stressed and before you know it, the public has allowed
someone else to slip his hand into its pocket. As time goes on, little by
little the state manages to funnel more and more money through its myriad
bureaus and eventually the politicians are running the entire economy.”
                Jo was
still dubious. “Who in his or her right mind would allow politicians to make
economic policy? Most of them are small-town lawyers who got involved in
planetary politics and wound up in the Federation Assembly. They’ve had a year
or so of economic theory in their undergraduate education, usually from a
single source, and that’s the extent of their qualifications in the field of
economics. How can they possibly have the gall to want to plan the course of an
economy that affects the lives of billions of people?”
                “They not
only have the gall for it; they will claw and scramble over each other in a mad
rush to see who can do more of it.”
                “Okay.
Granted, such men exist and some of them are probably in the Federation
Assembly. But I’m sure they’re outnumbered.”
                “I’m going
to tell you Paxton’s First Law,” Old Pete said, raising his index finger:
“Never trust anyone who runs for office.”
                “Maybe it’s
time someone paid a visit to Mr. Haas and got some first-hand information,”
Easly suggested, getting back to business.
                “Good idea,
Larry,” Jo began. “Why don’t you–”
                Old Pete
interrupted. “I think Jo and I should go see Mr. Haas ourselves. We’ll go as
representatives of IBA; he’s got a product and we want to help him market it.
That’s our business. What could be more natural?”
                Tella and
Easly agreed that it was a reasonable approach, but Jo objected.
                “Sorry,
can’t go. Too much work to do.”
                “You can
get away for a while,” Old Pete said. “IBA won’t fall apart without you. And
think of the impact on Mr. Haas when the head of IBA pays a personal visit to
his humble abode. Why I’m sure he’ll fall all over himself telling us
everything we want to know!”
                Everyone
laughed and Jo reluctantly agreed to accompany Old Pete to Dil. She hated
interstellar travel, hated the wave of nausea that hit her every time the ship
came in and out of warp. But Dil wasn’t that far away and IBA employed a
first-rate jump engineer for its