our cargo aboard them, and one by one they started back to the dome. That was all there was to it. No contact between Callistans and outsiders at all.
When the last crate was swung aboard the last truck, the captain said, “Get back in and let’s blast off!”
I turned to him. “I’m not going. I’m resigning, sir.”
He looked at me blankly, as if I’d just said, “I’m dead, sir.” Finally he said, “You’re what?”
I nodded. “I’m quitting? Right here and now. I’m going to grab one of these cargo trucks back to Callisto City.”
“You can’t leave in the middle of the trip!” he protested. He went on objecting, violently, until I quietly told him he could pocket the rest of my uncollected wages. At that he shut up in a hurry, and gestured for me to get going. These guys are all alike.
***
I climbed into the rear truck of the convoy, and the startled driver looked at me wide-eyed.
“What the hell are you, buddy? There’s nothing about you on my cargo invoice.”
“I’m just going along for the ride, friend,” I told him softly. “I’m a sightseer. I want to get a look at your fair city.”
“But you can’t—” he objected. I jabbed him in the ribs, once, in exactly the right place, and he subsided immediately.
“Okay, buddy,” he grunted. “Lay off. I’ll take you—but remember, it’s only because you forced me.” He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. “But it’s beyond me why in blazes anyone would want to get to Callisto that bad—when we’d all give our left ears to get away.”
“It’s my business,” I said.
“Sure, sure,” he said placatingly, afraid of another poke. “Do whatever you damned please. But it’s your funeral—remember that.”
I smiled to myself, and watched the shining dome of Callisto City grow nearer. I was wondering what was going on beneath that peaceful-looking arc of plastine. It didn’t sound very good.
***
Finally we reached the city, and the truck edged carefully into the airlock. My helmet-window went foggy as the icy air of outside was replaced by the warm atmosphere of Callisto City, and then I saw my fellow truck-drivers climbing down and getting out of their spacesuits, in obvious relief at being able to shuck the bulky, uncomfortable things.
As I slid out of mine, I noticed one very strange thing. All the truck-drivers—every last one—wore curious golden collars around their necks. The collars were almost like dog-collars, thick, made of what looked like burnished bronze. They seemed oddly flexible and solid at the same time, and set in the middle of each was a little meter that kept clicking away, recording some kind of data.
I looked around. There were twenty or thirty Callistans near me, and they all wore the collar. And they all wore the same facial expression, too. The best way to describe it is to call it a beaten look. They were all beaten men, spiritless, frightened—of what?
The intense fluorescent lights from above glinted brightly off the collars. Was wearing them some kind of local custom, I wondered? Or a protection against something?
I heard low whispering coming from them as they stowed their spacesuits in dull-green lockers ranged along the side of the airlock, and headed back toward their trucks. They were all looking at me, and obviously they were commenting on the fact that I didn’t have any collar. They seemed shocked at that, and very worried.
“What’s this collar business?” I asked the driver of my truck, as we moved through the inner lock and into the city proper.
“You’ll find out, chum. Just make sure you can run fast when they spot you, though.”
“When who spots me?”
“The guards, dope. The Tax Agents. You don’t think you can breathe for free on Callisto, do you?”
“You mean they tax your breathing?” I asked, incredulously, and before I could get an answer I saw a cordon of guards forming around our truck.
***
There were half a dozen of them, burly men in blue
When the last crate was swung aboard the last truck, the captain said, “Get back in and let’s blast off!”
I turned to him. “I’m not going. I’m resigning, sir.”
He looked at me blankly, as if I’d just said, “I’m dead, sir.” Finally he said, “You’re what?”
I nodded. “I’m quitting? Right here and now. I’m going to grab one of these cargo trucks back to Callisto City.”
“You can’t leave in the middle of the trip!” he protested. He went on objecting, violently, until I quietly told him he could pocket the rest of my uncollected wages. At that he shut up in a hurry, and gestured for me to get going. These guys are all alike.
***
I climbed into the rear truck of the convoy, and the startled driver looked at me wide-eyed.
“What the hell are you, buddy? There’s nothing about you on my cargo invoice.”
“I’m just going along for the ride, friend,” I told him softly. “I’m a sightseer. I want to get a look at your fair city.”
“But you can’t—” he objected. I jabbed him in the ribs, once, in exactly the right place, and he subsided immediately.
“Okay, buddy,” he grunted. “Lay off. I’ll take you—but remember, it’s only because you forced me.” He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. “But it’s beyond me why in blazes anyone would want to get to Callisto that bad—when we’d all give our left ears to get away.”
“It’s my business,” I said.
“Sure, sure,” he said placatingly, afraid of another poke. “Do whatever you damned please. But it’s your funeral—remember that.”
I smiled to myself, and watched the shining dome of Callisto City grow nearer. I was wondering what was going on beneath that peaceful-looking arc of plastine. It didn’t sound very good.
***
Finally we reached the city, and the truck edged carefully into the airlock. My helmet-window went foggy as the icy air of outside was replaced by the warm atmosphere of Callisto City, and then I saw my fellow truck-drivers climbing down and getting out of their spacesuits, in obvious relief at being able to shuck the bulky, uncomfortable things.
As I slid out of mine, I noticed one very strange thing. All the truck-drivers—every last one—wore curious golden collars around their necks. The collars were almost like dog-collars, thick, made of what looked like burnished bronze. They seemed oddly flexible and solid at the same time, and set in the middle of each was a little meter that kept clicking away, recording some kind of data.
I looked around. There were twenty or thirty Callistans near me, and they all wore the collar. And they all wore the same facial expression, too. The best way to describe it is to call it a beaten look. They were all beaten men, spiritless, frightened—of what?
The intense fluorescent lights from above glinted brightly off the collars. Was wearing them some kind of local custom, I wondered? Or a protection against something?
I heard low whispering coming from them as they stowed their spacesuits in dull-green lockers ranged along the side of the airlock, and headed back toward their trucks. They were all looking at me, and obviously they were commenting on the fact that I didn’t have any collar. They seemed shocked at that, and very worried.
“What’s this collar business?” I asked the driver of my truck, as we moved through the inner lock and into the city proper.
“You’ll find out, chum. Just make sure you can run fast when they spot you, though.”
“When who spots me?”
“The guards, dope. The Tax Agents. You don’t think you can breathe for free on Callisto, do you?”
“You mean they tax your breathing?” I asked, incredulously, and before I could get an answer I saw a cordon of guards forming around our truck.
***
There were half a dozen of them, burly men in blue
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