Third World by Louis Shalako Page B

headset off for five
minutes. That should cure the problem. Let them yap amongst
themselves.
    If they thought he was listening or
even cared they were wrong.
    They were out in the taiga now. The
horizon seemed a hundred kilometres away when they crested a hill,
and yet it was probably only five or six. It was hard to pinpoint
exactly which contour line on the map display might correspond to
exactly which distant ridgeline or notch in the green-clad ridges
in front of them. The clarity of the air was startling, and in this
light, with the sun low on the horizon, the hills and valleys stood
out in stark detail.
    The only time they knew
where they were, and all this in spite of the satellite mapping and
location system, was when they came to a place.
    It might seem odd, but a planet with no
places was hard to navigate across. Thirty-seven k’s up the road
was a crossroads.
    Until then, they were smack dab in the
middle of nowhere, and they hadn’t passed a human being, an animal,
or any sign of habitation in the last half hour.
    What was really strange was the lack of
garbage—this had to be the cleanest planet Newton Shapiro had ever
seen.
    It also bespoke a poverty, of a kind
Newton had never seen before. He was supposed to report his
findings. Most of the people he’d met had never seen a doctor in
their entire lives.
    That was one thing.
    They were a remarkably cheerful people,
which was another.
    Newton had been struck by the absolute
lack of law and authority out here. What was really strange was
that they didn’t seem to miss it.
    It was like where there was no
temptation, there was no crime, no matter the poverty of the place.
Basically there was nothing to steal and nothing to buy with the
proceeds since everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business.
Unfortunately that sort of solution couldn’t be applied to more
populous worlds, or anywhere but in the strictest
isolation.
     
    ***
     
    Monday and Tuesday were the worst for
Hank. Wednesday broke with low, dark clouds, high winds and a
falling barometer. To stay indoors was unthinkable without anything
to do so Hank lit a couple of extra lamps, as oil was in good
supply. He hardly used it with the longer summer days.
    Beginning in the back bedroom,
privately admitting that it was a bit small and dark to share with
a wife, (and the more beautiful she was, the more unsuitable it
was,) Hank swept and brushed and wiped every surface, removing the
blanket and sheets for laundering, getting them started by soaking
in water, while he polished any wooden surfaces that were
varnished. That meant mostly the top of his narrow dresser and the
turned posts of his bed, which was fairly narrow but long enough
and of good, store-bought quality. If this worked out, they might
be needing a new one.
    One of the best investments he had ever
made, a lot of folks made their own mattresses—bracken was a crop
with many uses, and Hank had slept on a hand-stuffed bracken tick
for years before his business got around to turning a buck. He had
been hankering for something to spend it on when he saw Peltham had
one in the store, all wrapped in plastic and covered with sticky
labels. The half-price label was the one that caught Hank’s
attention. The fact that the plastic was yellowed and torn on a
corner made no difference to him.
    Hank did the floors with a bucket of
hot water and oil-soap, a local product but not made from bracken.
There were flowers that grew in nooks and crannies, tall shoots
with blue heads on them.
    The roots were all oily. There was a
word, but Hank couldn’t recall it. It had something to do with
breaking surface tension or something like that. His education
wasn’t bad, he’d finished high school aboard ship. He went to the
ship’s one small college and studied mechanics, although he didn’t
actually finish and graduate. The point was that the soap was cheap
and it cut the dirt.
    Hank cleaned the windows with one of
the few store-bought cleaning products