Dave Ramsey showed up in the nick of time: the man in the birdshit-smeared two hundred and fifty dollar designer T-shirt had just been told to enter by the entrance guards.
"Crikey," Dave said. "I never expected they'd process people so quickly!"
"Yes, Henry seems to be as efficient as ever," said Harold. "And newly ruthless."
"Ruthless? What do you mean?"
"You'll see."
Dave did, very shortly. The town hall doors crashed open and the man in the soiled designer T-shirt was led out, or rather carried out, by two soldiers. They were gripping his arms so tightly his feet were barely touching the ground.
"You're hurting me," he was saying. "You're hurting me! Let me go!"
"Right away, sir," said one of the soldiers. They set him down on the top step and the soldier who'd spoken gave him a push. The man went tumbling down the steps, and there was a subdued gasp of horror from the assembled people.
"They had no right to do that," said a loud female voice the moment the doors closed behind the soldiers.
"They did have the right. Shut up," said one of the entrance guards, just as loudly. A shocked, disbelieving silence settled on the crowd.
"What are you waiting for?" the guard said to Harold.
"You didn't tell me I could enter."
"That's right, sorry. Got a little distracted. You seem to have the right attitude. Please go in."
"The two of us are together. Henry, I mean Mr. Deacon is expecting us."
"Go ahead."
They did. The entrance lobby contained a dozen soldiers, all in combat gear, looking determined and grim. Harold and Dave crossed the lobby and went into Deacon's office and immediately noticed an important change. A huge map of Port Douglas and adjacent territory was hung on the wall behind the mayor's desk. It was covered by a cellophane sheet marked with mysterious red and blue circles and lines.
The district governor and mayor of Port Douglas was pacing the ground in front of the map, looking rather grim. But he brightened up when he saw Harold and Dave.
"Hello, chaps," he said. "It's so nice to see someone who is reasonable. Sit down," he added, waving at the chairs set in front of his desk.
They sat down, silently marveling at the appearance of Deacon's desk. His elegant top hat sat to his right; to his left stood three separate piles of paper.
"Yes," Deacon said, catching their eye, "We're back in the pen and paper era. You'll have to sign a couple of documents."
He began plucking paper sheets off the piles, saying:
"After you sign those, go home and wait for the tax collector. He'll come round by the end of the day to collect the license fee, and issue you with implant kits. Harold, did you manage to find enough people for your colony?"
"Yes." Harold took out the signed declarations of commitment from his briefcase, and passed them to Deacon.
"That's good," Deacon said, glancing through them. "That's great, actually. I was worried about these kids. Now they'll have something to do. All right, here are your papers. One set for you, one for you, three documents each. First one's the license contract, the second is a waiver of your guaranteed monthly income - note the clause at the bottom, if your settlement fails and you decide to drop out of the whole colonial thing you must fill out an application to begin receiving the monthly payments. The third document states that you proceed at your own risk, and waive the right to claim any compensation and damages for losses incurred by your colonial venture. The tax collector will give you a receipt for the license fee."
"Who is our tax collector, Henry?" asked Dave.
"Nicky Rizzo."
Dave and Harold were stunned.
"Nicky Rizzo?" Harold said after a while. "But he's a criminal. I mean I know nothing's ever been proved in court, but it's common knowledge."
"Nicky Rizzo is a former drug dealer," said Deacon. "I say former, because he's freshly out of work. That whole business just doesn't exist any more. An unemployed criminal is a very dangerous criminal. It's better that he's busy doing something legal. And there's another advantage to giving him the job - I don't have to worry about his security. Tax collection is going to be a dangerous business, as I'm sure you understand."
"I do, and I'm sure Harry does too," said Dave. "But could you please put us under someone else?"
"Mr. Rizzo is the sole tax collector in Port Douglas. It's just a few hundred households. He declared he can manage that with a thumb up his arse, to use his words. And between you and me and a rubber boot, I think appointing a second tax collector in Port Douglas would be bad move. I would have to appoint a new one every month because they'd keep disappearing. You get my drift?"
They did, and nodded silently.
"I'm pretty sure Rizzo will be good at the job," said Deacon. "Of course if you have any complaints, come to see me. Hopefully it won't come to that."
"I want to ask you something, Henry," said Harold Pendelton.
Henry Deacon raised an admonishing finger.
"Just a moment," he said. "Let me show you your colony sites first."
"Our sites? You're selected the colony locations for us?"
"Of course. I'm obliged to. Every colony has to be given enough space to develop to a meaningful size. I don't want tiny hamlets whose production amounts to a fart on a windy day. I know you two want to run a colony together. That's good. You're free to do that, but you must launch them separately, in locations indicated on this map. I've put you as close to each other as I could without questions being asked. Come over here."
They got up, and joined Deacon in front of the map.
"The district capital, the new Port Douglas in the New World is located here, on the peninsula," Deacon said, tapping the blue circle drawn on the transparent sheet covering the map. "I've given both of you coastal locations, so count your blessings. Harold, yours corresponds almost exactly with where you live here. I've decided to reward you for safeguarding the cube, and assisting with the evacuation of its contents from your property.
"Yours," Deacon said, turning to Dave Ramsey, "Is a little further down the coast, at Yule Point. That's just ten kilometers away. You'll launch from Yule Point, and send your colonists north to join up with Harry in the New World."
"But that will be a hundred kilometers in the New World!" exclaimed Dave.
"That's the best I can do. Harold, is something the matter?"
There was. Harold was greatly shaken to discover there was an operational district capital in the New World; Deacon hadn't even as much as hinted at that during their numerous meetings. Harold had had the impression that this had been abandoned after Jane Leary's nervous breakdown. What was more, Deacon's capital was very close to his and Dave's existing, illegal settlement! It was a miracle they hadn't been found out.
He was determined to keep it that way, and he lied:
"I was just thinking that both of us could send out scouting parties and meet somewhere in the middle. Make things easier."
"I don't know," said Dave, catching onto the ruse instantly. "What if they miss each other?"
"Maybe you could discuss that among yourselves later, fellows?" asked Deacon. "Harry, you said earlier you wanted to ask about something. Go ahead."
"Those soldiers you've got here, the guards at the entrance. They're being pretty rough with people."
"Were they rough with you?"
"No, other people."
"Then why are you complaining about it?"
Harold was dumbstruck.
"I wanted to say, I thought it's a citizen's duty to report irregularities," he said eventually.
"Where you are concerned, yes. If as you say the soldiers were a bit rough with other people, they probably had good reasons. That fellow that came in before you - I had to have him removed by force."
"I see."
"Actually, the words I used were to throw him down the stairs, and see if he'll bounce."
"Henry!"
"Don't 'Henry' me. I told him to behave himself twice. He didn't, so he got thrown out."
"Isn't this a little brutal?"
"No, it isn't," said Deacon. "It's the right way to do things. You know, the past couple of decades - what am I saying, it's closer to half a century - there's been a steady decline in respect for authority. Governments everywhere kept getting softer to win over voters, forgetting that people always complain and always want more, no matter how much they get. And then there was all this bullshit propagated by the entertainment industry. It's great be a gangsta, fuck the law!
"Music, movies... Fucking Hollywood with all those movies about corrupt, venal policemen and politicians, and about criminals who are really loving, kind men. It was basically the system's fault that they turned to crime. Correction: they were FORCED into crime. It got to the point where fucking rioters were suing cops for excessive force! The authorities, the guardians of the law became the villains, and the villains became angels, martyrs, victims - you name it.
"That's over and done with. We're not going to go that route, because it leads into a cul-de-sac."
The smug look on Deacon's face indicated he was pleased with this little final verbal flourish. Harold wasn't. He said:
"We?"
"The new world government," Deacon said. "And now, chaps, I really have to ask you to leave. I want to get home for dinner."
It was a very sensible wish, a wish that couldn't be disputed. They said their goodbyes and left.
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