Free Privateers by Ben Bova Page A

Malik asked, his smile looking slightly sardonic now.
    “As much as the government allows.”
    “And how much is that?”
    “Ask Seńor Hernandez. He has the figures.”
    Malik would not be deterred. “Enough to feed the poor people living in those miserable hovels outside the city? Would you say that your profits could help to feed the poor, rather than making a very rich man even richer?”
    “This operation makes jobs for thousands. …”
    “Of engineers and tax accountants.”
    “And butchers, bakers, telescope makers”-Dan found himself enjoying the challenge of argument-“cooks, babysitters, auto mechanics, salespeople of all kinds, gardeners, truck drivers-you name it. We bring money into this country, and each bolivar that space operations produces gets spent eight or ten times over, within the country’s internal economy. That’s a considerable multiplier, and it’s fed more Venezuelans than all the damned welfare programs the government’s ever funded!”
    Malik laughed derisively. “And yet there are still many hungry people, while you live in luxury.”
    Dan started to reply, but held himself in check for a moment. He saw something in Malik’s eyes, something crafty and dangerous. The other Russians were watching the two of them; even those who claimed they could not understand English could see the sparks that the two men struck off each other.
    “You really want to feed those hungry people?” Dan asked coolly.
    “Yes, certainly.”
    “Then lower the prices you charge us and the other Third World space operations.”
    That caught Malik by surprise. “Lower the prices for the ores we mine from the Moon?”
    “Right,” Dan said with a grin. “All the Third World space manufacturers-even the Japanese-have to buy their raw materials from the Soviet Union. You control the lunar mines and you set the prices for the ores.”
    Malik nodded. The smile was gone from his face, replaced by a skeptical, almost worried expression.
    “Lower the prices for our raw materials, and we can lower the prices for the finished manufactured products. That means we’ll be able to sell more of our products. Which means we can increase production. Increased production means more jobs. More jobs means fewer hungry people. So if you really want to feed those hungry squatters …”
    “No, no, no!” Malik waggled a finger in Dan’s face. “You would not hire those unskilled men and women to be astronauts or engineers.”
    “Maybe not. But we’d hire some of them to drive trucks and do maintenance work. Others would get all sorts of jobs in the city, working in restaurants, driving taxicabs, all sorts of things. And we could help to build schools for their children, so that they could become astronauts and engineers.”
    “Capitalist propaganda.” Malik smirked.
    Dan laughed. “Propaganda or not, friend, that system has produced more wealth for more people than all the Socialist planning in the world.”
    The Russian shook his head.
    “Try it!” Dan urged. “Try it for one year. Just twelve months. Lower the prices you make us pay for the lunar ores, and I guarantee you that those shacks on the hills will start to disappear.”
    “No,” Malik said. “That is not the way to end poverty.”
    “Then how do you propose to do it?”
    His handsome smile returned. “In the proper Socialist manner, of course. The Soviet Union will increase its voluntary contribution to the International People’s Investment Council. That will provide more funds for alleviating hunger in nations such as Venezuela.”
    “Increase their dole, eh?” Dan grumbled. “Make them more dependent on the Soviet Union’s largesse.”
    “We will feed the hungry,” Malik said firmly. “Of course, to do this, it is necessary for us to generate more revenues for the Soviet treasury.”
    Dan saw it coming, but it was far too late to do anything about it. He felt like a tenpin in a bowling alley, watching the inevitable rolling toward