I held my head to keep it from exploding. “It can’t be such a bad place to work,” I said. “Country life-farming-fresh air and sunshine.” “Um,” said the man in an embarrassed way. “It’s better than chemicals, I guess. Maybe not so good as mining. You’ll find out soon enough.” He moved away, and I fell into a light doze when I should have been making plans. There wasn’t any landing-ready signal. We just hit, and hit hard. A discharge port opened, letting in blinding tropical sunlight. It was agony after the murky hold. What swept in with it was not country air but a gush of disinfectant aerosol. I untangled myself from a knot of cursing laborers and flowed with the stream toward the port. “Hold it, stupid!” said a hard-faced man wearing a plant-protection badge. He threw a number plaque on a cord around my neck. Everybody got one and lined up at a table outside the ship. It was in the shadow of the Chlorella plantation, a towering eighty-story structure, like office. “In-and-Out” baskets stacked up to the sky. There were mirrored louvers at each tier. Surrounding the big building were acres of eye-stabbing glare. I realized that this was more mirrored louvers to catch the sun, bounce it off more mirrors inside the tiers and onto the photosynthesis tanks. It was a spectacular, though not uncommon, sight from the air. On the ground it was plain hell. I should have been planning, planning. But the channels of my mind were choked by: “From the sun-drenched plantations of Costa Rica, tended by the deft hands of independent farmers with pride in their work, comes the juicyripe goodness of Chlorella Proteins . . .” Yes; I had written those words. “Keep moving!” a plant-protection man bawled. “Keep it moving, you God-damned scum-skimmers! Keep it moving!” I shaded my eyes and shuffled ahead as the line moved past the table. A dark-glassed man at the table was asking me: “Name?” “Mitchell Court-” “That’s the one I told you about,” said the purser’s voice. “Okay; thanks.” To me: “Groby, we’ve had men try to bug out of a B Contract before this, you know. They’re always sorry they tried. Do you know what the annual budget of Costa Rica is, by any chance?” “No,” I mumbled. “It’s about a hundred and eighty-three billion dollars. And do
you happen to know what the annual taxes of Chlorella Corporation are?” “No. Damn it, man-” He broke in: “About a hundred and eighty billion dollars. From that, a bright fellow like you will conclude that the government-and courts-of Costa Rica do just about what Chlorella wants done. If we want to make an example of a contract-breaker they’ll do it for us. Bet your life. Now, what’s your name, Groby?” “Groby,” I said hoarsely. “First name? Educational level? H-H balance?” “I don’t remember. But if you’ll give them to me on a piece of paper I’ll memorize them.” I heard the purser laugh and say: “He’ll do.” “All right, Groby,” the man in dark glasses said genially. “No harm done. Here’s your profile and assignment. We’ll make a skimmer out of you yet. Move on.” I moved on. A plant protection man grabbed my assignment and bawled at me: “Skimmers that way.” “That way” was under the bottom tier of the building, into light even more blinding, down a corridor between evil-smelling, shallow tanks, and at last through a door into the central pylon of the structure. There was a well-lit room which seemed twilit after the triply reflected tropical sun outside. “Skimmer?” said a man. I blinked and nodded at him. “I’m Mullane-shift assignment. I got a question to ask you, Groby.” He peered at my profile card. “We need a skimmer on the sixty-seventh tier and we need a skimmer on the forty-first tier. Your bunk’s going to be on the forty-third tier of the pylon. Frankly, which would you rather work on? I ought to mention that we don’t have elevators for skimmers and the other Class 2 people.” “The forty-first-tier job,” I told him, trying to make out his face. “That’s very sensible,” he told me. “Very, very sensible.” And then he just stood there, with seconds ticking away. At last he added: “I like to see a sensible man act sensible.” There was another long pause. “I haven’t got any money on me,” I told him. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll lend you some. Just sign this note and we can settle up on payday without any fuss. It’s just a simple assignment of five dollars.” I read the note and signed it. I had to look at my profile card