The key to everything that had appeal in life, he had decided, was money. Sure, like some people said, it wasn’t everything; but all the other things depended on it. In all his long years of observing life and forming insights as to how the limited time that it offered could best be enjoyed, he had come to identify three things at the bottom of it all that mattered: girls—at Americyon, betrothals were by approval that depended more on social needs than what the individuals involved thought about it, and the likelihood of his getting approval of any kind had been a joke; things, like clothes he picked himself, a place to live that he’d decided he liked, or a snazzy set of wheels to drive around on—for instance, any of the numbers in the front row lined up across Mahom’s lot; and freedom, which in Solomon’s vocabulary meant being able to devote his energies to pursuing the first two, as opposed to having to do what somebody else—such as the superintending tribunal at Americyon—decided he would do. But simply being free to pursue one’s ends didn’t amount to much without the necessary wherewithal to achieve them. In short, it all boiled down to money. True, you couldn’t take it with you at the end of the act; but where else could you go without it?
He looked up from reconnecting the turbine compressor gearing in a Mars-assembled “Camel” tractor in the workshop, as the sound came of a car turning in from Beacon Way. A shiny black Metrosine, flashing silver and white wheels and outside trim, drew up in front of the door of the office building. Solomon had seen it around town a few times. Three men got out, all soberly and more expensively dressed than the norm for Mars, and went inside. Several seconds later, Phil Verlan, Mahom’s sales manager, appeared from among some parked vehicles and sauntered in the side door, drawn by the scent of possible prospective customers.
Now, that was what he meant by money, Solomon told himself as he settled back to what he was doing. Doing things in style was what pulled the interesting chicks. In a place like Mars, a good mechanic would always be able to pay the rent, take care of the bills, and would never need to look very long for a job; but it would never lead to the kind of life that had style. Working for Mahom, however, opened up other possibilities that went beyond just fixing trucks, autos, and other weird kinds of machines that appeared in the yard. The “Stores” building at the back contained enough hardware to equip a revolution. With his mechanical and workshop skills and some applied study, Solomon could use his time here to start himself on the way to becoming a weaponry and ammunition expert. Now, that was something that could command really good money. The people who had what it took kept big places on their payrolls for those who helped them hang onto it.
Having grown up on Mars, Solomon had difficulty imagining what life must be like on Earth, with every square inch of land controlled by a government that laid down rules you couldn’t argue with, and nowhere much different for anybody to go. Here, there was an “Administrative Congress” in Lowell, a “Security Council” at Osaka, in the Tharsis region, a “Directorate” at Zerolon, on the planet’s far side above Hellas, and other kinds of setups at other lesser places, all of which performed more or less the same kind of function in spelling out a few basic rules that few people would argue with, and backing them up with the muscle and firepower to make sure they stuck. For instance, you didn’t walk in and take anything you fancied of anyone else’s just because you happened to be bigger and meaner, or blow someone away for disagreeing with your opinions. And that seemed to make sense. It was businesses and industries that had built Lowell, so they should have the right to spend their money keeping enough law and order for people to want to live and work there. And anyone who didn’t like it was free to find somewhere in the Outlands or self-run settlements—such as Americyon—that suited them, and take their chances.