130 New World, Old Realities (1/2)
The seagull perched on the roof of the Port Douglas town hall blinked, bent its head, and blinked again with its other eye. It didn't help - there was no food to be seen. It was a new experience for the seagull. Wherever there was such a large group of people, there was food - that had always been the rule.
Those ungainly apes were pretty much always eating. They ate even when they weren't hungry. And whenever they ate, they'd also drop and leave food all around them! It was a miracle such a stupid species managed to thrive.
Flying is a tiring business. Many of the small birds in colder climates need to eat their own weight every day in order to survive. Staying alive means looking for food all the time. Captive, caged birds have it good: they can eat themselves stupid without lifting a wing. When they are released and have to fend for themselves, most of them quickly die.
It had been a very lean February for the seagull. It had been a very lean February for the seagull. Usually, the sandy beach was a smorgasbord of goodies, with half-eaten hot dogs a top favorite. But there had been nothing but sand in February. January hadn't been that bad: a lot of little creatures of the sea had washed up dead following an incredible storm, a storm that had very nearly killed the seagull. It had survived by sheltering in an overturned trash can.
The seagull got a last, good look at the disappointingly clean street and took off from the roof, headed for the ocean. Getting to eat something was going to be very hard work, lots of flying just above the waves, hunting for a fish that had stupidly moved close to the surface of the water. In preparation for that effort, the seagull's intestines constricted and expelled a drop of liquid shit. The less weight to carry, the better!
Harold Pendelton saw the drop of birdshit splatter on the shoulder of the man standing before him in the lineup that began at the town hall entrance. He rejoiced inwardly, for he disliked the man in front of him. He was one of the normally absent citizens of Port Douglas: a holiday rental property owner who lived elsewhere while his house became a source of pounding music and drunken yowls very late into each night.
There were many properties like that in Port Douglas; it was a popular holiday destination. And many of their owners had returned in recent weeks, mostly hitching rides on the army truck that brought very basic supplies in very basic quantities every day. There was a lot of free space in the truck, it could easily accommodate quite a lot of paying passengers. A large part of the income was distributed among the soldiers in the platoon of engineers that was stationed in Port Douglas; like the truck drivers, they'd hadn't received their February pay.
”Shit,” said the man in front of Harold Pendelton, looking at his freshly soiled shoulder.
”Indeed,” said Harold Pendelton.
”This is a designer T-shirt,” the man said. ”I paid two hundred fifty for that T-shirt.”
”Indeed,” repeated Harold.
The man turned his back on Harold and pulled out a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his shorts and began smearing the birdshit all over his shoulder. Harold turned away; he looked at the line of people behind him. He estimated at least a hundred. However, not all were prospective colonizers: some of them would be lining up to receive their guaranteed monthly income. They could be recognized by their angry, anxious faces. The word was that the guaranteed income payment would amount to ten dollars. The argument was that each new cent would be worth a full dollar in old money, but ten dollars still sounded like next to nothing.
He was sure that there would be plenty of angry scenes once the town hall doors opened for business. Most of the people waiting to purchase a colonial license would get angry too, because they were going to be turned away.
Harold and his friend David Ramsey had anticipated that. Two weeks earlier, they entered into long and complicated negotiations with the mayor, Jane Leary, a fifty-year-old business woman who until recently had ran the town in a very capable manner. Her performance deteriorated steadily from the moment she was instructed to found a settlement for the colonial government in the New World. Previously a model of stability under stress, she became hysterical at the slightest provocation. She resigned as mayor and district governor a week into Harold and David's delicate negotiations.
Her successor, Henry Deacon, was a retired restaurateur well known for his pragmatic, down-to-earth approach. He refused to be shaken by even the most dramatic of events; had aliens aboard a spaceship arrived in Port Douglas, he'd have asked them whether they'd like to eat something following such a long journey.
After his appointment, new difficulties popped up in Harold and David's efforts to acquire as many licenses as they could afford.
”I cannot promise you anything beyond the official minimum, whatever it might finally be,” Deacon told them. ”Everyone and their dog wants a colony in the New World. The territory under my control doesn't permit more than half a dozen independent colonies. People will just have to bunch together, that's all.”
”But we ARE bunching together, Henry,” said Dave Ramsey. ”My two sons with their families will be arriving any day. My daughter with her husband and kids is coming, too. They're going to be very useful, in Port Darwin as well as the New World. One of my sons is an accomplished carpenter; it has been his hobby ever since he turned ten. The other is a geologist, and I don't have to explain how useful he'll be in the New World. And my daughter is a medical doctor, like myself.
”They're all bringing their spouses?”
”Yes.”
”I'm sorry, I can issue you with just a single colony license. At this point in time, it guarantees you two implant kits and the option to purchase eight more. That will be enough for all of you.”
”A single colony license, that's fine,” said Dave Ramsey. ”But my children are bringing their kids! They're all teenagers or in their early twenties. Ideal age!”
”You want to replicate teenagers in the New World?” asked Deacon.
”Yes. Why not? That's probably the best age to get introduced to the New World.”
”How many?”
”Three,” Ramsey said. ”But please note that four of my grandchildren are over eighteen. They're teenagers, but they're adult teenagers.”
”You want seven extra implant kits?”
”Yes.”
Deacon shook his head.
”Impossible,” he said.
It went on like this for three more meetings, spread out over a week. Their wives - Gladys and Susan urged them to give it a rest. They argued they could use the secret stash of implant kits and hiber beds they'd kept. But Harold and Dave were firm.
”Every single person we have in our colony has to be a licensed colonist, and that's that,” Dave said.