The Merchant's War Read Online Free Page A

said, “to inform you that my government is not satisfied with your compliance with the Protocol of ‘53. Under it we have the right to inspect this prison at yearly intervals.”
    “Reciprocally,” I corrected him. I knew the Protocol by heart; each power had agreed, ful-somely and generously, to let the other inspect all penal, corrective or rehabilitative institutions to assure compliance with humanitarian standards. Fat chance! Their Xeng Wangbo “retraining center” was in the middle of the Equatorial Anti-Oasis, and no dip had ever been allowed near it. Of course, what we did inside the PPC was none of their business, either. Veenie law insisted that every grek get his own bunk with a minimum of twenty-four cubic feet of space. That was no punishment at all! There were plenty of sales-revering consumers back home that never saw that much space. There was no use arguing about it, though. The Veenie building inspectors had insisted we build in that much space, but as soon as the prison was finished the warden just closed off a couple of bays and doubled everybody up.
    “It’s a matter of basic human standards,” he snapped. I didn’t bother to answer, only laughed at him silently—I didn’t have to mention Xeng Wangbo. “All right,” he grumped, “then what about commercials? Several parolees have testified that you’re in violation there!”
    I sighed. Same old argument, every time. I said, “According to section 6-C of the Protocol a commercial is defined as ‘a persuasive offering of goods or services.’ There’s no offer, is there? I mean, the things can’t be offered when they’re not available, and the greks can’t ever have such things. It’s part of their punishment.” The rest of their punishment, to be sure, was that they were continually bombarded with advertising for the things they couldn’t have. But that, too, was none of his business.
    The quick gleam in Harriman’s eye warned me I had fallen into a trap. “Of course,” I backtracked swiftly, “there are exceptions to the general rule, so trivial in nature that one need not even mention them—”
    “Exceptions,” he said gleefully. “Yes, Tarb, there are exceptions, all right. We have affidavits from no fewer than eight parolees stating that prisoners have been driven by the commercials to write their families and friends back on Earth for some of the advertised goods! In particular, we have evidence that Coffiest, Mokie-Koke and Starrzelius brand Nick-O-Teen Chewies have been included in prisoners’ Red Cross packages for that reason …”
    We were off. I abandoned all hope of catching the return flight that night, because I knew we would be haggling now well past midnight.
    So we were, with much consultation of “clarificatory notes” and “position statements” and “emendations without prejudice.” I knew he wasn’t serious. He was just trying to establish a bargaining position for what he really wanted. But he argued tenaciously, until I offered to cancel all Red Cross packages completely for the greks if that would make him happy. Well, obviously he didn’t want that, so he offered a deal. He dropped the question of commercials in return for early commutation for some of his pet greks.
    So I gave him slap-on-the-wrist, token ten-day sentences for Moskowicz, McCastry, Bliven, the Farnell family … and Hamid. As I had planned to all along.
    Harriman was all smiles and hospitality once I’d given him what he wanted—or thought he wanted. He insisted I spend the night in his pied-à-terre in the Polar town. I slept badly, having refused his offer of a nightcap or several—I didn’t intend to take chances on spilling information I didn’t want him to have. Also, all night long I kept waking up with that panicky agoraphobic feeling you get when you’re in a place that’s too large. Crazy Veenies! They have to fight for every cubic foot of living space, and yet Harriman had three whole rooms! And in an