Under the Blue Sun

By W. R. Hagen

Sperrian agent, Oran, is sent to frontier planet H-27, claimed by the rival Hazitsy
Empire. Why is H-27 kept so low-tech? Why have thousands of humans disappeared?
While struggling to solve these puzzling mysteries, Oran befriends a native leader, Large
Tooth. Oran soon suspects the natives arent as primitive as they pretend. After Oran
accidentally ingests a native drug his mental powers are enhanced. He then sees himself
and his mission differently, and becomes aggressively proactive. For very different
reasons, Oran and Large Tooth join forces in the quest to uncover the amazing truth
about Hazitsy plans for H-27. In the process, Oran discovers his full potential.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 16, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462819478

W. R. Hagen

W. R. “Bill” Hagen is the father of four. He and wife, Donna, live in the Texas Hill Country, near Austin. When not traveling (enthusiastically), playing golf (poorly), or visiting children (happily), Bill enjoys writing. He is the author of Under the Blue Sun and Alien Future: The Golden Path. Watch for his anthology of short stories, My Favorite Shorts. Interests include technology, history, and human behavior.

Book preview

UNDER

THE BLUE

SUN

W.R. HAGEN

Copyright © 2009 by W.R. Hagen.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2008908287

ISBN:      Hardcover        978-1-4363-7081-3

                Softcover          978-1-4363-7080-6

                eBook               978-1-4628-1947-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/16/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

WE ARE NOT ALONE

TEN YEARS LATER - DAY ONE —MONDAY

THE ACTOR, THE PART

LUNCH

A NEW FRIEND

BEAUTIFUL JAYMEE

HARVEST

DAY TWO —TUESDAY

REPORT TO SPERRY

A BEGINNING

GOING TO TOWN

CASE THE JOINT

FIRST DATE WITH JAYMEE

RUNNING FOR OFFICE

HELP FOR A NEW FRIEND

TO ROB OR NOT TO ROB

THE PREACHER MOCK

ORAN BECOMES AN OLD FRIEND

FAST BOAT TO GOVERNMENT ISLAND

DAY THREE —WEDNESDAY

EXPLORE GOVERNMENT ISLAND

ASTAMSHEE WANT ANSWERS

A COMPANY OF OLD FRIENDS

MAYOR COOSHAWN

THE PROPHET MOCK

SECOND DATE WITH JAYMEE

DAY FOUR —THURSDAY

First Convert

Third Date

DAY FIVE —FRIDAY

FOLTCO GROWS

POLITICIANS ATTACK

BUGS AND COMPUTERS

DAY SIX —SATURDAY

LARGE TOOTH COMES CLEAN

DAY SEVEN —SUNDAY

BLACK GUARDS PLAN

WHERE IS HE?

MIND EXPANSION

DAY EIGHT —MONDAY

THE MAYOR PLOTS

LOST WEEKEND

FOLTCO UNDER SIEGE

APOLOGY TO JAYMEE

DAY NINE —TUESDAY

INVITATION

DAY TWELVE —FRIDAY

SPIES AMONG US

INTERROGATION AND MISCALCULATION

FRON AND ORAN INTERROGATED

DAY THIRTEEN —SATURDAY

THE MORNING AFTER

WHERE IS ORAN THIS TIME?

THE RACE IS DOOMED

THE UNIVERSAL CHURCH

DAY FOURTEEN —SUNDAY

FIND LARGE TOOTH

THE REBELLION IN JEOPARDY

LARGE TOOTH AND ARREST

ODD FELLOWS MEETING

WHO IS THE SPY?

A NEW ALLY

INTERROGATION OF LORAS

GRAY-CLAD ASTAMSHEE

DAY FIFTEEN —MONDAY

SNEAK ATTACK

DAY SIXTEEN —TUESDAY

HUMANS UNITE

ASTAMSHEE PLAN

DAY TWENTY-THREE —TUESDAY

EXPERIMENT AND SELF-ANALYSIS

DAY FORTY-TWO —SUNDAY

FRUSTRATED FRON

FISHERMEN REACT

DAY FORTY-SIX —THURSDAY

ORAN REPORTS TO SPERRY

GOVERNOR RECEIVES A CALL

HALDOR’S INTERVIEW

MAYOR FOLLOWS UP

DAY FIFTY —MONDAY

MEETING OF THE FOUR

MESSAGE FOR THE BANKER

SUBVERT THEIR WEAPONS

STUDY THE OC

FISHERMEN CHEER

DAY FIFTY-ONE —MONDAY

LARGE TOOTH’S PLAN

SECOND MEETING OF THE FOUR

THE NEW SMALL TOOTH

FRON PLOTS WITH DRURY

SMALL TOOTH’S REPORT

DAY FIFTY-TWO —WEDNESDAY

NEGOTIATIONS

THE WAR IS OVER

JAYMEE RETURNS

DESPERATE FISHERMEN

FRON BACK ON TOP

DAY ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE —WEDNESDAY

HUMANS ENJOY PEACE AND PROSPERITY

DAY ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR —THURSDAY

A NEW PARTNER

ORAN PLANS FOR THE FUTURE

THE SHERIFF AND THE MAYOR

ASTAMSHEE LEADERS PLOT

DAY TWO HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE —THURSDAY

MOVING WATER

GOVERNOR COOSHAWN AND GUARD CAPTAIN KARAP

SHERIFF FRON

DAY THREE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN —TUESDAY

TWO OLD FRIENDS TALK

SANCTUARY

PROPHET’S HOUSE

ARCHBISHOP WARM POOL PLANS

ASTAMSHEE PLANS REVIEWED

DAY THREE HUNDRED TWENTY —FRIDAY

A TREATY AMONG OLD FRIENDS

ASTAMSHEE REACTION

ORAN BEGINS HIS CLIMB

THE END

Dedications

My wonderful wife, Donna

(Known to friends and family as Saint Donna)

My friend & biggest fan, Police Detective Joe Marr

(A man of vast intellect renowned for his cultured tastes and incomparable judgment)

My copyeditors, brother Warren & son Gary

(Relatives possessing the acumen to add materially to my efforts)

My lifelong friend Richard W. Bonds

(Storyteller extraordinaire)

Acknowledgements

Cover Art by George Monaghan

Ugly Duckling Co

Photography by Pamela Lowe

Impressions Photography

WE ARE NOT ALONE

The Astamshee leader looked up from his desk. Enter.

The servant entered and bowed. Master, something is falling from the sky toward the world.

How do you know? asked the chairman.

We detected electronic signals emanating from it, Great One.

Electronic signals imply intelligence. Is it a flying machine?

Yes.

Are you certain it will come here?

Nearly certain, Great One. The electronic signals are steadily strengthening and they continue to emanate from the same point in the sky.

How soon before it arrives?

Not more than thirty shadows.

The Astamshee leader considered the news, and then said slowly, Apparently we are not alone in the universe. If the machine arrives here, we will have the opportunity to study the beings that fly it, and to learn from them, before we decide what to do with them.

Yes, Master, first we will learn from them.

I think it will put the visitors most at ease if we appear primitive and weak, so order the immediate removal of all buildings from this island, except this one, of course. And inform the pod leaders that until further notice, no Astamshee is to venture onto land, except the egg masters, and they are to confine themselves to the hatching ponds.

After the servant left, the leader thought about this fascinating event. We are not alone. Interesting. The visitors are not gods; else, they would not need a machine. How many are coming and from where? What do they seek? What will we learn from them? Will they resemble us? Will it be necessary to destroy them?

Paradise Island Map

Image1.jpg

Paradise Island

Hazitsy-27

Not to Scale

Hand drawn by

Jonl Chan, Senior Surveyor

Hazitsy-Prime

TEN YEARS LATER - DAY ONE —MONDAY

The Actor, the Part

Why am I working so hard? Oran stopped swinging the heavy scythe back and forth across the tall stalks of red-colored sershon. Sweat poured off him and he was tired. He arched his back to relax and stretch tired muscles. I’m not a farmer, I’m a spy. What in all the hells is wrong with me? I’m supposed to pretend to be a farmer, not actually be a farmer.

Oran thought, Without help, it’ll take me three more weeks to cut and bale this stuff. Maybe I could hire some of the little Astamshee. It is either that or I do it all myself.

Oran straightened and let the scythe fall. Okay, screw this, no more work on a hot day in high gravity. Why did I choose farming as a cover? I knew the Hazitsy kept this planet low-tech. I knew I’d have to farm like the primitive ancients. What’s wrong with me?

After a pause, he answered his own question. Because your other option was fishing and you don’t like boats.

This was Oran’s first assignment as an agent for the Sperry Empire’s External Intelligence Service, the Sperry EIS. Shortly after training, the EIS assigned him to this remote frontier planet, discovered only ten years ago by the rival Hazitsy Empire. Oran had expected intrigue and excitement. Instead, he led a life filled with boring drudgery. I just know I’m destined for great things. How is that ever going to happen, if I’m stuck on a third-rate frontier planet?

The planet, Hazitsy-27, was a giant ball of freshwater with a single landmass, a small island named Paradise. Some nameless bureaucrat on Hazitsy-Prime had misnamed the nearly circular island. It was no paradise.

Oran caught the smell of moist air. He turned to see the dark clouds that moved steadily southward toward him and would soon bring the daily sprinkles that kept the land green and helped cool the air. Oran turned his head and scanned the vast horizon. As far as he could see, the pristine, rolling green hills contained but a single building: his modest farmhouse, with its red tile roof, its bone-white, windowless walls, and a single windowless, blue door. Over the horizon in the west was the bustling port, Haven City, with its huge sheltered bay; to the east sat the huge, impassible Great Swamp, a quagmire, which sat in the center of the island and made about a fifth of the landmass unusable for any purpose. Tiny Prison Island was off the northern tip of Paradise Island, and his closest neighbor, Fron, was south. Not another living creature could be seen anywhere within his view.

Except for the seven densely populated cities, which were distributed along the coast of Paradise Island, humans were thinly spread over vast tracts of the richly fertile land. All the native animals lived in the sea, except the tiny, indigenous humanoids, the primitive Astamshee. They had no houses or buildings, they pretty much kept to themselves, and they appeared not to labor at anything. They had a language, but no human could speak it. The Astamshee, however, had learned to speak Standard, so humans assumed they were somewhat intelligent. Oran hoped they were energetic enough to help cut and bale his fields of valuable sershon.

Oran squinted briefly at the large blue sun burning high overhead. After the small, yellow sun of his home planet, Sperry-Prime, the magnificent blue sun seemed exotic and beautiful. It was also very hot. Other than the heat, the feature Oran disliked most about Hazitsy-27 was its gravity, which was forty percent higher than normal. On Sperry-Prime, he weighed one hundred twenty standard kilograms. He was shocked to land on Paradise Island and feel as though he weighed one hundred sixty-eight kilograms. At home, Oran never ever did any physical labor. On Hazitsy-27, physical labor was an everyday necessity, due to the absence of even rudimentary technology.

The adjustment to the higher gravity had been difficult, but, after months of acclimation, Oran began replacing loose, flabby tissue with hard, lean muscle. He could now work all day in his fields without having to trudge home and immediately collapse into bed. Furthermore, when he went to town, he would receive admiring glances from women and respectful glances from men.

Well, I’m hungry. I’ll look for help right after lunch. He turned and walked south toward Fron’s property, which was located across the Snake River. Maybe Fron would want to go to the tavern for lunch.

As he walked, Oran thought about his predicament. I badly want a vacation from farming, but to maintain my cover I can’t let my crop be lost, not without at least a token attempt to save it. Besides, over three thousand credits of sershon are sitting in my fields.

Two years ago, when Oran planted his first crop, plenty of human workers were willing to plow, plant, and harvest. It was about then that the human population began noticeably to decrease. No one knew why, people simply vanished without a trace.

Near the end of that first year, when it was time for his fourth harvest, help was difficult to find, and labor prices began to rise. Now, no human would do the hard work of farming. Oran wondered how a crop could be harvested using the small, lethargic natives, but he decided he would worry about that later, after lunch.

He studied the clouds again and concluded it would be the usual light rain, which would not damage his valuable sershon.

88888888

Oran walked thru the light-green, knee-high grass that covered most of rural Paradise. He had worn a barely visible path through the fast growing knee-grass over the last two years with his infrequent walks to Fron’s. When he reached the Snake River, he eagerly dove in and swam the sixty meters to the southern bank. The Snake River was one of the nine widely scattered rivers that drained water from the Great Swamp into the ocean. The water always made Oran feel lighter, and swimming was something he had come to enjoy. His one-piece green work suit was lightweight and did not absorb water. Designed for use in hot climates, it wicked moisture efficiently from inside the suit to the outside. His gray boots were also light, waterproof, and nearly indestructible. They acted as small flippers in the water.

The slow-moving and murky water was warm, but cooler than the air, and Oran emerged on the southern bank refreshed and free of the dust and salty sweat that had accumulated on his skin and clothes. His clothes would be completely wicked dry in a few minutes.

Walking with short steps, in the slow gait appropriate for long walks in high gravity, Oran marched steadily along his path, and reached the boundary of Fron’s homestead in fifteen minutes.

From the edge of Fron’s property, Oran saw small Fron standing on the roof of a building that had not been there a few days before. Fron’s small house sat hidden from view over the next rise. Oran wondered if Fron would bring up robbing the bank.

As Oran approached, amiable Fron waved. Fron’s short black hair, dark eyes, and deeply tanned skin made him look, from this distance, like one of the small, very dark Astamshee. In reality, Fron was a head taller than the average native, and not nearly as stocky. Dominating his thin face was a large nose and two large, dancing, dark eyes that smiled easily. Nestled below the nose were a small mouth full of very white teeth and a weak hairless chin.

Oran, a Sperrian, stood just over two meters tall, was easily half a meter taller than Fron, and Oran’s tan was a golden brown. His normally light skin, dark blonde hair, and blue eyes were unusual on this remote galactic arm; they made him different from most others, including Fron and the natives.

As Oran neared the building, he could see it was only a shell with four corner posts protruding out of the ground. Sturdy fascia-boards, strung between the corner posts, formed the boundaries of a roof three meters above the ground. Strung between the north and south fascia-boards were evenly spaced joists. On the ground was a stack of Plaswood sheets. There seemed to be enough for the roof, but not the walls.

Hey, Fron, what are you building?

I is buildin’ a doghouse fer my chicken, said Fron.

I helped you eat your last chicken months ago, said Oran.

What is you doin’ here in the middle of the day?

I’m going into town to search for help with my harvest, and I want to stop for lunch at the Jawfish Tavern. Do you want to go?

Yeah, sure, but first gives me a hand.

With what?

Hands up them Plaswood sheets. I wants ta gets this roof on for the storm hits.

Alarmed, Oran looked up at the gently rolling, dark clouds that moved slowly toward land. They looked normal for that time of day. The satellite pictures this morning had shown no storms on the entire planet. However, it was not impossible that a storm had recently formed, and was racing toward Paradise Island. At moments like this, Oran wished he could afford a Mini-Tri-V, which he could wear like a wristwatch. With it, he would always know the latest news and weather. However, the oppressive import tax on this planet made such things prohibitively expensive.

What storm?

The one what’s comin’ next.

When’s that? asked Oran.

How does I knows? I ain’t no psychic?

Relieved, Oran shook his head and chuckled.

Starts handin’ up them sheets.

Twenty minutes later, forty-eight one by three meter Plaswood sheets were neatly stacked on the roof. Oran was sweating heavily again, but he was used to that.

How would you have gotten those up there if I hadn’t happened by?

But ya did happens by, said Fron, his tone of voice making it obvious he considered Oran’s question silly.

Fron looked down at the huge Sperrian, who stared up at him. Fron coaxed, Comes up here and helps me gets this stuff nailed down, will ya?

Let’s get some lunch first. I’m starved.

Yeah, sure, right after we nails on this roof.

Disappointed, Oran climbed the ladder and stepped gingerly onto the corner. It seemed to hold his weight. He wondered if the center of the roof would hold him as well, but he was not eager to test that theory.

As Oran surveyed the roof, he shook his head. The roof was about twelve square meters. Lunch was at least two hours away.

Slides a sheet over here, so’s I can nails it down, demanded Fron.

As usual, Oran did what Fron asked. Fron was an interesting character, who provided a welcome diversion from the boring monotony of life on Paradise Island. Work and avoiding boredom were the two major activities on Paradise Island.

The two men worked in silence. Oran held Plaswood sheets in place and Fron nailed them down.

Oh, crap, said Fron.

What? asked Oran, looking up.

Here comes that damn Preacher Mock. I doesn’t feels like wastin’ time talkin’ ta him. He only shows up when he’s moochin’ stuff. He heard I has Plaswood, most likely.

Oran turned to look at Mock.

Mock hollered something in his high-pitched, squeaky voice, but he was too far away for Oran or Fron to understand. He continued to hobble slowly down the rarely used path that connected his place with Fron’s, and he leaned heavily on his cane to take weight off his mending ankle.

Hey, boys. cried the preacher, now close enough to be heard. The preacher was one hundred and ten standard years, but told everyone he was one hundred and fifty.

As the preacher limped closer, Oran noticed he looked even skinnier than usual. He wore a baggy gray shirt and matching baggy gray pants, which appeared to have enough room in them for a second person of his size. He wore a visor cap on his balding head, and what little remained of his gray hair, had not seen a barber recently.

The preacher hobbled over to the shade provided by the partially completed roof. Looking up at the two roofers with his light brown eyes, he asked, Now, pray tell, what are you boys doing?

Lord Hazitsy asked me personally ta builds him a mansion, said Fron.

That was going to be my first guess, replied the preacher. Hey, that’s a lot of Plaswood you have there. He surveyed the lumber and asked, Why don’t you let me have a few of those two by sixes?

’Cause I needs ’em to finishes this mansion, meathead, answered Fron.

You wouldn’t need so many if you hadn’t put those joists so close together.

I likes fer stuff I builds ta be strong.

At this rate, you’ll be able to park a ground-car on the roof. You must have learned carpentry somewhere with lots of trees. Don’t you know Plaswood is four times stronger than the strongest wood? said the preacher earnestly. He scolded in his squeaky voice, You’re wasting valuable materials.

I still ain’t given away no stuff.

Man, you are the stingiest soul on this planet, said the preacher. Just let me have about ten. You’ll never miss ’em.

Tells ya what, said Fron. I’ll trades ya four fer that simwood door ya has leanin’ against yer back storehouse.

How do you know about that door? I’ve only had it a couple days.

I sawed it when I was goin’ ta town.

You’d have to go two kilometers out of your way to go by my place on your way to town, said the preacher.

Fron could not admit that he always went that way when he was borrowing sershon from Oran’s south field. Fron never picked any area clean. He borrowed a little here and a little there.

Does ya wants ta trades or doesn’t ya?

I need that door, insisted the preacher.

I needs them two by sixes, countered Fron.

The preacher stabbed his cane at Fron and said, Well, I’m pretty stove up, so you’ll have to deliver the boards and haul off the door. I’ll need twelve of those boards.

I’ll gives eight and no more.

Well, I guess I can make do with ten.

They’ll be there in the morning, agreed Fron. In the mean times, gets yer skinny butt up here and gives us a hand.

Oran watched, amazed, as the preacher climbed the ladder and walked nimbly across the joists to where Fron was working.

Hey, Preacher, said Oran, you’re pretty good on those beams.

Well, it hurts like sin to walk without my cane, but if I don’t help this man, he won’t ever help me.

That’s a fact, agreed Fron. This old loafer would steals the coins offa a dead man’s eyes, but only if no one seed him.

That is a sinful lie, said the preacher. As a smile of satisfaction formed on his face, he added, You could rot in hells for telling such lies.

Hells is too full of hypocrites ta has room fer me, countered Fron.

The three men worked in silence for a while. Fron thought about the bank job. The preacher wondered how much longer it would be necessary to maintain his current persona. Oran worried about how high off the ground he was. A three-meter fall in this gravity could break bones, so he stuck to the stronger corners of the roof and let the smaller men, who were both apparently experienced carpenters, work near the center.

The preacher, who hated silence, asked, What temperature is it?

Oran was about to answer, when he saw Fron staring at him. Fron shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

Preacher, scolded Fron, doesn’t ya ever gets tired a askin’ that? Hazitsy-27 had no seasons because its axis was at ninety degrees to its nearly circular orbit. Each day was exactly the same, unless a rare storm hit. If someone knew the temperature, they also knew the time. It was shortly after thirteen o’clock, which was the middle of the twenty-six-hour day, so the temperature was about thirty-five degrees Celsius. It’s quarter after thirty-five, said Fron.

Ignoring Fron, the Preacher said, I wish the rain would get here.

Oran looked up at the clouds. Me too.

Is that what passes fer witty conversation around yer place? Fron looked at Oran and jerked a thumb in the preacher’s direction. He likes the sound a his own voice.

Well, said the preacher, almost any conversation is better than none.

Okay, said Fron. Here’s somethin’ ta jabbers about. I thinks we should robs the bank pretty soon.

Thou shalt not steal, intoned the preacher, who stopped his work to stare at Fron.

That Haven City Bank has millions a credits in it, said Fron. A righteous man, likes yerself, could does a lot a good fer the poor with his share a that. Remember Preacher, the good book says, ‘Thou shalt knows ’em by they’s works.’ Tells me, what good works has ya performed lately, Preacher?

The preacher made no reply.

We’ll be likes Rabin Hider, we’ll steals from the rich, insisted Fron. Ya knows it’s that dirty bastard Emperor Quintin Hazitsy what owns the Haven Bank. We’d be doin’ everyone a favor by peelin’ it clean.

Oran banked his EIS pay back on Sperry-Prime. He could not only live on his income as a farmer, but was able to bank over half of it. Oran did not need money, but he did crave excitement, and Fron’s idea intrigued him. Fron had been hinting for months that the bank needed to be robbed. This was the first time he had been so direct about it.

Oran asked, How would we do it?

Fron worked another sheet of Plaswood into place, and then looked up. Well, we gots some figurin’ ta do, but the place is a cracker box. C’mon Preacher, keeps nailing.

What are we building, Fron? asked the preacher, intentionally changing the subject.

I’m gonna starts a nursery.

For little kids?

Paradise Island had few children. Like most frontier planets, it had a mostly male population. The few women who came to Paradise Island were not generally the type who came to raise a family.

No, goofy, fer plants. Food plants.

Oh, sure, like we have trouble growing things on Paradise, said the preacher. You can poke a dead stick in the ground and a week later it’ll have leaves.

I ain’t grown no dead sticks. I wants ta grows special off-world plants what needs a bit of shade and a cooler climate. Them folks in Haven’ll pays top money fer somethin’ different ta eats.

If you say so, said the preacher. Sounds harebrained to me. Everyone likes sershon. Why don’t you grow sershon, like Oran?

I don’t wants ta grow no sershon. That’s way too much like work… . No offense Oran.

I bet you don’t know the first thing about a nursery, said the preacher.

I can learns. Besides, I needs a way ta make a livin’ until it’s safe ta spends some a the money from the bank job.

Fron needed money and, as he saw it, robbing the bank was his only choice. Four years before, he had used his life savings as a down payment on three apartment buildings in the belief that Paradise Island would grow rapidly. However, the hoard of immigrants never materialized. Worse, the population had been declining steadily for about two years. Half of his apartments stood empty, and the money from the other half did not cover the mortgage payments. Fron was property poor and did not even have the resources to leave Hazitsy-27. He had to dig into his dwindling financial reserves just to stay alive and make mortgage payments.

Fron looked at Oran, who he considered a good man, one he could trust with a scheme like the bank job. His eyes moved to the preacher. He knew that to consider using the preacher was an act of desperation.

Well, that brings up a good point, said the preacher. If that bank is a cracker box, it’s because they know no one would be foolish enough to rob it. This island isn’t very big and the only way off it, is on a government space liner.

That’s where they makes they’s first mistake, boys. They didn’t never expects no one smart and bold as me ta comes along.

Okay, genius, said Oran, how do you expect to hide all that money, and how do you explain where it came from when you spend it?

Fron stopped his nailing and sat back on his folded legs.

That’s the beauty, he replied. We only spends a few credits here on Paradise. Nothin’ ta excites no one; just enough ta survives. We smuggles most a the money off planet, sits tight here fer a few years, then migrates off this damn, damp rock, and catches up with our money. He looked at his companions for a few seconds. Hows ’bout some nailin’ with the talkin’?

How about my good works? asked the preacher.

No one says they has ta be did on Paradise, Preacher. A course, whatever money ya does spends here, ya could explains away as contributions ya’ve received fer yer charity work.

It could work, admitted the preacher. And taking money from Emperor Hazitsy, the greatest thief ever to draw a breath, can’t be looked at as stealing, can it?

Not at all, agreed Fron. More likes a eye fer a eye. Fron thought, It’s always good ta quote the good book at this old felon. He added, Just thinks, all that money is gonna goes ta old Quintin’s idiot son, Prince Arthum Hazitsy. If we thinks it’s bad now, just waits ’til fatty Arthum comes emperor.

That’s right, agreed the preacher with a grin. I don’t believe stealing from a thief, is stealing, at all.

We’d actually be returnin’ the money ta its rightful owners, said Fron. Well, some of it, maybe, as we buys stuff.

An eye for an eye, mumbled the preacher. Becoming louder he said, This could be a sign. Yes, sir. Maybe we should do it. He watched the affect his practiced theatrics and fanatically pious words had on his companions. He noted that Oran studied him without expression, while a satisfied grin formed on Fron’s face. Oran is a deep one and probably smarter than he pretends. Fron is shallow but intelligent. Both men have their uses. God truly moves in mysterious ways.

That’s what I wants ta hears, confidence and enthusiasm, said Fron. C’mon, boys, let’s gets this roof on so’s I can buys ya a drink.

How do we get the money off-world? asked Oran.

I knows a guy, answered Fron. C’mon, boys, let’s keeps workin’. Contrary ta what ya thinks, it’s actual possible ta talks and works at the same time.

Lunch

Two hours later the roof was on, and the trio of conspirators walked at the preacher’s slow pace through a light mist. They had rowed the preacher across the Snake River using the small boat he kept for that purpose. Now they were walking through the green knee-grass that separated the city from their farms.

The Jawfish Tavern, perched on a hill overlooking northern Haven City, was only twenty minutes away. Those with time on their hands and money in their pockets could get a good meal or a drink anytime at the Jawfish, or they could drop in a bit before sunset and enjoy the frequently spectacular sunsets. Located too far uphill for most commercial fishermen, the Jawfish’s clientele tended to be the minor merchants who lived near the outskirts of town and the farmers on the northeast side of town.

I like the view from the Jawfish, said Oran.

This whole island is about as flat as a pancake, said the preacher scornfully. The storms wore it down to a nub, and the afternoon rains just smoothed it off.

Is they a point ta this revelation, Preacher? asked Fron as he ran a hand over his hair to remove some of the water.

The Jawfish is only sitting on a small knoll, said the preacher. If you want to see a view, you should see the views back home where I was raised. We had mountains, real mountains. I wish Paradise had a mountain.

While yer wishin’, ya should wish fer somethin’ useful. What the hells does we needs with a mountain? We has the pretty, blue sea ta looks at.

I don’t want to get rid of the sea, squeaked the preacher. I’m just saying that you should see the mountains where I come from.

Where is that, Preacher? asked Oran. Before he had gotten the words out, Oran knew he had committed a breach of Paradise Island etiquette. No one on Paradise Island ever asked another person where he came from. Very few would volunteer the information, but even then, most would be lying.

Huh? Oh, I forget the name, answered the preacher politely as he looked up at Oran. In truth, the preacher was originally from Hazitsy-5, a flat, mostly desert planet. Old habits prompted him to leave a trail of false information. It used to be a necessity; now it was merely a harmless habit.

He looked at Fron and said, I still wish we had a mountain. The preacher knew that Fron considered him an idiot, but that was as it should be, until the fullness of time. The preacher had deliberately achieved the status of character. It was a useful cover.

We’re gettin’ near the tavern, boys, warned Fron. Remember, we saves our talks about the bank fer when we is alone in the country. He added with a smile, Which, by the by, is where we’d be now, if Big Oran didn’t needs ta stokes his boiler. Sure glad I doesn’t has ta pays fer yer groceries.

Oran rubbed his stomach. I could eat a dead dog about now.

Only one? asked the preacher.

As the trio continued their trek through the wet knee-grass, Fron said, Boys, this is a backward planet, but I wouldn’t puts it past them Black Guards ta has a joint like the tavern wired fer sound, maybe even pictures.

Bugs? That seems unlikely, said the preacher, with a blank look on his face, though he knew Fron was almost certainly correct. What could be going on in a low-tech frontier planet like this to interest Hazitsy’s Royal Guard?

Royal Guard? mocked Fron. Ya means the damned Black Guards, the secret police. For every one you sees struttin’ around in his pretty black uniform, they is a hundred sneakin’ around in plain clothes what ya doesn’t see.

Oran thought, I have no idea why anyone would be interested in this rock, but if I’m here spying, others must be too. Bugs? Yeah, maybe I should bug the tavern. My computer could monitor the conversations. Why didn’t I think of that before? The question troubled him greatly.

I is right, Preacher, said Fron. The devil can raises his head anywheres.

The preacher stopped in his tracks. He stared at Fron with a quizzical look on his face. Are you speaking metaphysically?

Fron did not answer because he did not know what metaphysically meant.

Distracted by his throbbing ankle, the preacher pleaded, Boys, give me a minute to rest. The preacher leaned heavily on his cane. His face reflected his pain.

How did you break it? asked Oran, trying vainly to get his mind off his hunger.

I was standing on a cheap ladder when it folded like a beer can, and I landed badly.

Cheap ladder, hells. That were my good stepladder, complained Fron. Which reminds me, when is ya gonna replaces my ladder?

Can’t say for sure. As soon as I find another, at a good price.

Doesn’t ya owns nothin’? asked Fron.

The preacher frowned. I am not a servant of mammon. I don’t need earthly possessions.

Maybe so, but ya ain’t shy ’bout borrowin’ earthly possessions. Mostly mine, seems like. Fron pointed at the ankle. When is that thing gonna be mended?

Another month or so.

Then we pulls this bank job in a month or so, said Fron. If I can survives that long. I’s about six weeks from debtor’s prison, unless I finds a buyer fer at least one of my properties, or we peels that bank.

The thought of prison brought to Fron’s mind the foreboding image of the local prison, located on the small island fifty kilometers off the northern tip of Paradise Island. Just the thought of what must go on inside those walls sent a shiver down his back. He looked at his two companions; he knew they needed to be reassured about the bank job. When they heard his plan, they would become committed. The only trouble was Fron did not have a plan. That was going to require some serious scheming. He knew the bank was no cracker box. He had seen the human guard and the spy eyes. Something very big was in that bank.

The preacher resumed walking, and the other two fell in beside him. Fron’s hair and Oran’s hair were wet from the steady mist, water was dripping from the preacher’s visor, and, thanks to the knee-grass, their pants legs were very wet from their knees down to their shoes. None