"I do," he assured her.
"Well, I don’t! It’s the most disgusting thing in the world, and that’s all I’m going to say. Talk to Krannon, but not to me." She had him by the arm while she talked and he was half dragged to the hall. The door slammed behind him and he muttered "lady wrestler" under his breath. His anger ebbed away as he realized that she had given him a clue in spite of herself. Next step, find out who or what Krannon was.
Assignment center listed a man named Krannon, and gave his shift number and work location. It was close by and Jason walked there. A large, cubical, and windowless building, with the single word food next to each of the sealed entrances. The small entrance he went through was a series of automatic chambers that cycled him through ultrasonics, ultraviolet, antibio spray, rotating brushes and three final rinses. He was finally admitted, damper but much cleaner to the central area. Men and robots were stacking crates and he asked one of the men for Krannon. The man looked him up and down coldly and spat on his shoes before answering.
Krannon worked in a large storage bay by himself. He was a stocky man in patched coveralls whose only expression was one of intense gloom. When Jason came in he stopped hauling bales and sat down on the nearest one. The lines of unhappiness were cut into his face and seemed to grow deeper while Jason explained what he was after. All the talk of ancient history on Pyrrus bored him as well and he yawned openly. When Jason finished he yawned again and didn’t even bother to answer him.
Jason waited a moment, then asked again. "I said do you have any old books, papers, records or that sort of thing?"
"You sure picked the right guy to bother, off–worlder," was his only answer. "After talking to me you’re going to have nothing but trouble."
"Why is that?" Jason asked.
"Why?" For the first time he was animated with something besides grief. "I’ll tell you why! I made one mistake, just one, and I get a life sentence. For life—how would you like that? Just me alone, being by myself all the time. Even taking orders from the grubbers."
Jason controlled himself, keeping the elation out of his voice. "Grubbers? What are grubbers?"
The enormity of the question stopped Krannon, it seemed impossible that there could be a man alive who had never heard of grubbers. Happiness lifted some of the gloom from his face as he realized that he had a captive audience who would listen to his troubles.
"Grubbers are traitors—that’s what they are. Traitors to the human race and they ought to be wiped out. Living in the jungle. The things they do with the animals—"
"You mean they’re people… Pyrrans like yourself?" Jason broke in.
"Not like me, mister. Don’t make that mistake again if you want to go on living. Maybe I dozed off on guard once so I got stuck with this job. That doesn’t mean I like it or like them. They stink, really stink, and if it wasn’t for the food we get from them they’d all be dead tomorrow. That’s the kind of killing job I could really put my heart into."
"If they supply you with food, you must give them something in return?"
"Trade goods, beads, knives, the usual things. Supply sends them over in cartons and I take care of the delivery."
"How?" Jason asked.
"By armored truck to the delivery site. Then I go back later to pick up the food they’ve left in exchange."
"Can I go with you on the next delivery?"
Krannon frowned over the idea for a minute. "Yeah, I suppose it’s all right if you’re stupid enough to come. You can help me load. They’re between harvests now, so the next trip won’t be for eight days—"
"But that’s after the ship leaves—it’ll be too late. Can’t you go earlier?"
"Don’t tell me your troubles, mister," Krannon grumbled, climbing to his feet. "That’s when I go and the date’s not changing for you."
Jason realized he had got as much out of the man as was possible for one session. He started for the door, then turned.
"One thing," he asked. "Just what do these savages—the grubbers—look like?"
