A Planet with No Name Read online

  “You ain’t so bad. Missy was kinda pretty, but she was a fat, stupid cow. She was always talking about moving to Landing City. I’d a sent her off alone to the city myself, but she had her name on my section. She was always talking about selling it. She didn’t care nothing ‘bout me or the land. S’better she ain’t around no more. Sides, Dillon’s wife is more fun in the sack anyway, even though she won’t give me a family discount. At least she don’t whine when I want to take a little off’n the backside.”

  “Missy’s gone, but I’m here.” Veronica wondered for the first time if Missy Halberd’s death was a suicide or something else.

  She assumed he was too drunk to notice she had not taken a drink. “Whooo. That beer is going right through me. Maine, you come to see me some time if you can get rid of Dillon. I don’t think he likes me much. It’d be fun for you and me to get to know each other, don’t you think?”

  Not expecting a response from Maine, she pushed away from the bar and turned toward the back door. She timed it perfectly to pass Dillon in the tight hallway. Looking up at the taller man she noticed he was a lot better looking than his younger brother. He was also the smarter of the two, and probably harder to manipulate. She gave him a cold expression.

  Flirting with Maine was step one-a. This is step one-b.

  She said, “Halberd, you’re an unmitigated posterior aperture. ‘Thou shalt be whipp’d with wire, and stew’d in brine. Smarting in ling’ring pickle.’”

  She immediately stepped into the women’s restroom. Ensuring it was empty, she opened the window and climbed out, not an easy task in her long dress, but this step in her plan called for her to disappear out the back. Exiting through the patio door would leave her too visible to Dillon and Maine.

  She doubted it would be easy to drive a wedge between the two young men, but she had to start somewhere.

  She walked around the building to the street.

  Chapter Five

  Dillon quickly whispered to the sheriff so no one could hear his words. Everyone in the saloon heard the angry tone of his voice as he gestured wildly toward the restrooms.

  The sheriff left and Dillon stepped up to the bar next to Maine. He noticed his brother was getting drunk well ahead of him. Not that it mattered—Maine never could hold his liquor. He washed the dry feeling out of his mouth with half-warm beer while signaling for the bartender to bring him another cold one. He smiled in an unfriendly way. I’m sure glad Pa finalized his new business deal. It won’t take much to run Smith out of town now and the extra cash he got is going to go a long way. Now we got enough to pay our saloon bill so we can keep on drinking. Those jerks won’t be threatening to cut us off again.

  “What was Veronica Smith doing in here?” Dillon asked his brother.

  Maine laughed. “She weren’t doing nothing, except what half the other women in town want to do.”

  Dillon sighed. Sometimes it was like pulling teeth to get a halfway intelligent answer from his brother. Maine thought he was a wit, but he was only half-right. “And what would that be?”

  Maine laughed. “She was just trying to get into my pants. She wants a bit of Dr. Maine’s magic meat injection. Did you see her swish her fanny back there?”

  Dillon grunted. True, Smith’s got a nice body. She’s tall, lean, and well-defined, with a high tight butt, but the woman isn’t all that attractive. She isn’t that bad looking, she’s just not my type. She looks too hard. I like my women softer and rounder. She’s way too old, those bitches are too set in their ways.

  Dillon was ten years younger than Veronica, though she did not look it.

  Yeah, she’s too old for my baby brother, unless all Maine is planning on doing is getting his pecker wet. That’s not in the plan.

  “You be careful around her, Maine. You remember what Pa told us to do. Keep your head on right and keep junior in your pants.”

  Maine snorted. “Junior goes where he wants to go. That’s no concern of yours.”

  “Pa and Ma will skin you alive if you screw up their plans for this woman.”

  Maine laughed into his beer and nodded his acceptance.

  Dillon remembered this was not the first time Maine talked a good game about women. The poor boy really doesn’t know how to bed a woman without using the contents of his wallet. Maybe we can both tear off a little piece of Smith before we run her out of town. I don’t care whether she consents or not.

  Chapter Six

  Sheriff Eustace stepped in front of Veronica again.

  She asked, “What is it this time?”

  Eustace shrugged and said, “I know you don’t think much of my sheriff skills, but I do have a job to do. Dillon is in the saloon raising all kind of ruckus about you threatened to whip him with barbwire and drown him in pickle juice. Threatening people ain’t nice and it’s against a town ordinance.”

  Veronica frowned. “How did I threaten him? He’s almost twice my size and he’s never without Maine next to him or at least within shouting distance. All I did was quote from Anthony and Cleopatra by William Shakespeare. Surely there isn’t an ordinance against quoting old English playwrights?”

  “Shakespeare, huh? I haven’t read him since English 101 at good ol’ N.M.C.C. But, I suppose Dillon knows even less than I do. I’ll let it go this time.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff Eustace. It’s always comforting to know the law is there to watch over us.” She smiled when it became apparent to her that Eustace had missed her sarcasm.

  “You still gotta move your robot. I’m giving you time because it really wasn't your fault, but you can’t just abandon him there.”

  Veronica said, “Yes, Sheriff. I have to go down to Tatum’s. I should be able to get enough money if he gives me an advance on my crops to hire someone to help me move my robot out to my place.”

  Eustace shrugged, “If that robot is still there tomorrow morning I’m gonna start charging you parking fees and littering charges, too.” He walked away trying to calculate on his fingers how much cash he could try to squeeze out of Veronica.

  She did not have much left to squeeze. She was land rich and cash poor. It was an odd feeling for her. On Earth, it was the other way around. On Earth, she did not own any dirt, with the exception of what collected in the vacuum cleaner. Even the decorative plants in her office and their apartment were made of silk and plastic with the stems jammed into a green foam-like substance.

  It was a short walk across the small town to Manning Tatum’s office. The produce broker would be open as it was Saturday. Everyone for miles around came to town on Saturdays. Not that he did much business on Saturdays, but the man was as close to a politician as the town had. Saturdays were mostly for schmoozing. For regular business activity, Tatum’s clients simply gave him a call on the vidphone when they wanted to talk crops, cash, or cows.

  Tatum’s building looked like any other office building, on or off Earth, except that it was only three stories high. It was the tallest building in town by two stories. It was constructed of glass and steel with imaginative landscaping and a well-manicured entrance. One small patch of native grass and one small patch of Earth grass grew in front of the building, to Veronica’s amazement.

  She wondered how he managed to keep the native grasses growing. She spread a mixture of bluegrass, rye, and fescue seeds in a field shortly after arriving and in six weeks, the Earth grasses thrived, choking out the native grasses. In the past year, she saw fields of imported grasses spread across her range and beyond. Indigenous grasses never stood a chance. The guarantee on the seeds she planted specified weed-free grass. Her fields looked like parks or golf courses.

  Tatum relegated the first floor of his produce office building to temporary storage. It was a small space as most produce shipped directly from the fields to the large exchange houses. Remote controlled produce containers shuttled back and forth from the farms and ranches in the outlying areas to brokerage houses in Landing City, the planet’s central metropolis. The only food stored in Peace
ful Junction was used for local commodity exchanges, such as swapping beans for someone’s tomatoes. Mr. and Mrs. Tatum lived on the third floor and their offices were on the second floor. Mrs. Tatum was also Tatum’s secretary.

  Veronica took the elevator to the second floor and stood in the waiting area. It was comfortable and inviting as she soaked up the cool air conditioning. Not wanting her mud-splattered dress to cause a mess, she did not sit in the plush waiting area chairs.

  When Tatum waved her over, she plopped down unladylike in the chair in front of his desk. It was some kind of leather and should clean easily. She wanted to pull off her cowboy boots and rub her feet, but that would be beyond unladylike.

  Tatum wasted no time. “I hear that your robot met with an accident and was damaged beyond repair. That should hamper your harvest. Your contracts are to deliver your potato crop next week. Are you going to fulfill your obligation?”

  Veronica smiled without humor or hint of friendliness. “Word travels fast. Did you get word on what caused the accident?”

  Tatum’s eyes darted up and to the right. The man might be good at trading farm produce, but she thought he would make a terrible poker player.

  Tatum shook his head no. “It’s not my concern. I don’t have much to do with the Halberds anyway since they haven’t managed to produce a crop beyond subsistence levels. They would certainly do better if they had better land. That’s neither here nor there, however.”

  She let the inconsistencies in his story slide by without confronting him. “We have an agreement and I would like to fulfill my end of the bargain. However, it is a general contractual agreement and not an obligation, since I haven’t received any prepayments for my crops. I would like to secure an advance to purchase equipment to complete my harvest.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. I checked on your robot and there isn’t a spare processor on the planet that will fit unless you brought one. There is an abundance of used farm equipment on the market with farms across the south going belly-up, but prices are high and most of the equipment is in storage a thousand miles away. There isn’t any equipment available within a hundred miles of here.”

  “Why would I bring a spare processor for a field robot? Cal was advertised as theoretically indestructible.” Veronica's voice had picked up a sharp edge.

  “I guess they didn’t imagine that someone would put two .45 caliber bullets through each of its optical sensors at close range.”

  “I didn’t imagine anyone would do that either. I would’ve bought a gun myself and learned to use it if I thought such a thing could happen. What about giving me the advance? You know I have a crop ready now, so you know I’m good for it.”

  Tatum said, “No. I’m afraid I don’t give out advances. It’s a long-standing policy of mine. I almost went bankrupt handing out farming and ranching advances back on Earth. It was almost like gambling trying to figure out who would pay it back and who wouldn’t.”

  “Okay, then, how about if we re-negotiate? Why don’t you buy my crop in the field and get a crew in to harvest it yourself?”

  “Hummmm,” he said. He tried to look pensive, but it came across like a stall tactic. “I don’t see any problem with that. However, since I seem to be holding the upper hand, I don’t think I’ll offer any more than five percent of our original contract. Take it or leave it.”

  Veronica stared at Tatum for a minute. She opened her mouth to speak twice but closed it both times. Five percent was not enough to justify plowing and replanting. She wondered how close the Halberds and Tatum actually were. Unless she came up with another solution, she would be eating a lot of potatoes in the near future.

  She stood, kicked the chair back, crossed the room, and punched the button for the elevator. Facing the doors, she kept her back to the office area. The elevator doors opened to calls from both Mr. and Mrs. Tatum to come back and work it out. She allowed the elevator doors to close. The last thing she heard was Manning Tatum shouting about starving her out and placing her land into the hands of real farmers.

  Chapter Seven

  My starving to death isn’t going to happen no matter what Manning Tatum threatens. I may not have grown up on a farm, but I have plenty of crops in the ground and my cattle herd has already doubled in size. I’ve got a garden behind the house supplying me with fresh vegetables year round. I may not be good at canning, but I’m learning.

  Unless Tatum bought her excess crop, she would not have the cash for luxuries such as clothes, soap, and toilet paper. She was already out of coffee, tea, and sugar.

  No matter what she told Josh Jackson at the store, it was a long way to Twisted City. A good hundred miles as the crow flies, and she was not a crow.

  Why didn’t I plant a patch of coffee trees, tea bushes, and at least an acre of sugar cane? She shook her head. I don’t remember what chocolate tastes like, but my taste buds salivate every time I remember eating it.

  Her cumbersome dress was hot against her body in the humid air. Though her hat blocked the sun it felt too warm to wear. She sighed.

  What I’d give for a cool breeze.

  Summers in Arizona routinely hit 120 degrees, but a breeze and a little bit of shade made it bearable because the humidity rarely got above thirty percent. This planet’s humidity was so thick Veronica felt like chewing her air before breathing it. She chuckled.

  Somewhere I read that humidity makes the oxygen content in the air thinner, not the other way around. So, why doesn’t it feel that way?

  She missed the weather in Phoenix along with many other things from Earth.

  I miss going to the movies and going out to supper at a white tablecloth restaurant or even a vinyl and plastic tablecloth fast-food restaurant afterward. I miss shopping at the mall, especially at the Appalachian Hills Chocolate Factory store. I miss pizza on Friday nights and dancing at the Student Union on Thursdays.

  Except for a few Saturdays in town, she had been alone on her property with no one to talk to but Cal, her field robot. They did not purchase Cal’s vocalization module so he could not give her yes or no responses. He just did or did not do, without comment, but he was company…of a sort.

  I miss being a teacher. She realized she did not miss the teaching as much as she missed the students. The realization surprised Veronica. I swear I was happy to be done with tardy, unruly, ignorant, and spoiled rich students and most of all, the uncaring faculty. She missed her students’ inquisitiveness—those whose natural curiosity was finally awakened. I miss the odd questions and lengthy philosophical discussions. I even miss student ideas although they were mostly crap, stuffed with parental pabulum, media misinformation, and peer pressure propaganda. Some conversations were fun.

  My data cube holds enough material to keep me occupied for a hundred years, but what good is research if there’s no one to share it with?

  She took a deep breath and wrinkled her nose. The town smelled. There was an odor of decay wafting up from the ground. The puddles were almost gone and the mud was half dried. Cal’s body would bake into the ground and be all that harder to move if she could not figure out a way to move him soon.

  Maybe I could borrow a horse at the livery stable.

  She made the short walk back to the other side of town—it was actually a short walk to any side of Peaceful Junction. There was a lot of walking up and down for a town built on a flat plain. About half of the businesses along the commercial zone put in sidewalks. Their owners failed to consider the height of their neighbor’s sidewalk before laying their own walkway.

  The town was a hodgepodge of prefabricated building styles and architecture. The sight was enough to drive a reasonably competent city planner into a full course of therapy including lithium and padded rooms. Buildings with Roman columns standing next to Midwestern rambler style buildings would cause any architect or art history student to roll their eyes. They were easy to spot with Cape Cod cottages bracketing them.

  The buildings were the pushbutton—place slot A int
o slot B—general prefabricated units made by a dozen manufacturers from China to North Dakota. They came packed, wrapped, and shipped as cubes. When placed on the ground and activated, they unfolded and assembled themselves. Most came with a floater carriage making transportation and shipping easier. Once set at the proper location, the floater carriage would reverse angle, and its stabilizers would fire cables deep into the bedrock to anchor and level the building, regardless of soil density.

  However, every now and then, Peaceful Junction had a commercial building made of local components. They were the oddest. The residential section of town was a mixture of styles reflecting the tastes of residents who originally came from all over North America. One’s sense of taste was not often compatible with their next-door neighbor.

  Veronica and Cal built her home in the Southwestern ranch style. It was a single story structure with a flat roof made from local wood, stones, and massive adobe bricks they made with local mud and grasses. It was a two-bedroom home designed as a square with an open middle courtyard. The original design facilitated future additions.

  They even added a ramada on the west side of the house. During the last dry season, she did most of her cooking on the barbecue grill rather than heat up the kitchen. The roof was open air, but the vertical slats provided a lot of shade. Faithful to the Southwestern style of outbuildings, it had no walls.

  Back on Earth, she often had a dozen, handpicked students over for conversation and burgers on the grill. She had hoped to entertain guests at barbecues someday at her new home, but it did not look like that was going to happen anytime soon. At least her architectural style fit the landscape much better than the Chinese pagoda that housed the saddle and tack shop.

  Chapter Eight

  The farrier looked up from shaping and banging out a heated sheet of steel. He used giant tongs to pull the metal from the heater. He was working on a fender skirt of a hover vehicle and had it almost shaped just right. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Without the rain cooling things off, he and his partner were going to have to shut the doors to the shop and crank up the air conditioner. It was hot enough working over the metal heater units without the humidity causing him to work up a sweat from the effort of breathing.