A MATTER OF TASTE
By JOSEPH WESLEY
When a planet turns in an
insurance claim, it could run
to more than real money.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
CASE RL472 XYA 386. Oral report of Claims Adjuster Mark Atkinson (#384762). Transcribed by Telepath Operator #842 765J (Tellus). First andFinal Report. CASE CLOSING SYMBOL: AAA.
I arrived on the fourth planet of Sunder's Pride stark naked andstood comfortably in the snow, listening to the wind howl by, whilewaiting for the Expedition Manager to approach from the edge of thesmall clearing and welcome me. The Manager's name is Obadiah Jones.Like the rest of the expedition, he's from one of the minor Vegancolonies—Kinnison III—but he's undifferentiated Earth stock.
He bustled forward, wearing a full protective suit and helmet—thetemperature is thirty degrees below zero centigrade at noon and theatmosphere is poisonous—but I could see the expression of relief onhis face through his face plate.
"You're from Interstellar Insurance?" he panted under the one and ahalf G of Sunder's Pride.
I assented with a dignified nod.
He looked me up and down—my skin wasn't even showing goose pimples,of course—and then shrugged his shoulders. "The insurance companysent a first-class Mental Control Operator, I see, but it was a wasteof talent. Maybe they didn't believe our reports. We've had our ownoperators here—good ones, too—and they haven't been able to find anysolution. The Aliens are much better at all sorts of Mind Control thaneven our most talented men. I know our Policy says that you can keepus from calling in the military authorities for a week, but it's justa waste of time—and, more important, it's a waste of lives, too. Isuggest that you give us authority to call in the Navy right away."
"How many lives have you lost so far?" I asked.
"Only a dozen, but at regular intervals."
"That hardly seems excessive for an exploratory expedition," Icommented.
He shook his head impatiently. "I said at regular intervals. TheAliens treat us like we were cattle. Or sheep."
"Not exactly," I said, "or you would scarcely have called me in. Youmust be operating at a profit, and that means you're trading with theseAliens."
He scowled, but did not deny it.
Of course I knew this already. As an independent Claims Adjuster, itgoes without saying that I'd checked into the case before teleportingto the planet. Their profit was enormous, and our losses would beproportionately large if the military was invited to come in and spoiltrade while saving lives.
Their charter called for exclusive trading rights on any planet theyopened for ten years. And they had the usual clause in their Policyagainst loss by "government" action, meaning the military, even attheir own invitation. The military is fast, but it's not neat. The costcould run to billions for us, so my job was to try to find another way.
"Well," he said, "can we send an emergency signal to the Navy?"
"When does the next regular interval expire?" I asked.
He checked the timepiece set into the sleeve of his suit, and thenscratched some number in the clean wind-swept surface of snow. Hiswatch kept local time, of course. "In about fourteen Earth hours," hetranslated at last.
"Then there's no hurry