“What do you think should happen to the young man responsible?”
Phrantzes shrugged. “I really couldn’t say,” he said. “Hanging him wouldn’t bring the Senator back.”
“You surprise me. I’d have thought you’d want to see justice done.”
“Well, he’s been caught.” For some reason, Phrantzes felt he should choose his words carefully. “I’m sure he’ll get a fair trial, and the court will do what’s best.”
“You have a touching faith in our justice system.”
“Well, yes. Or I used to. Look, I’m sorry, but what’s all this got to do with me? Please, tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I just want to get out of here.”
But the abbot didn’t seem to be listening, or maybe he was a bit deaf. “Mihel Rhangabe was a radical,” he said. “Do you agree with what he was trying to do?”
Phrantzes pulled a confused face. How could he be expected to remember details of points of current affairs that didn’t really concern him very much, when he’d just been arrested on a spurious charge and interrogated by an elderly lunatic? “By and large, I suppose,” he said. “I mean, banning slavery, that makes sense.”
“Go on.”
Phrantzes considered for a moment, collecting his thoughts like a general rallying his surviving troops after a massacre. “You’ve got two dozen or so aristocrats owning huge factories producing high-volume, low-quality woollen cloth,” he said. “They’ve got a thousand or so slaves working hand looms; practically no overheads, they produce the raw material themselves, so they can trim their profit margin and make their money by selling in bulk to the Western Empire. But in the Empire, they don’t have slaves, instead they’ve got machines that’ll do the work of a hundred men and only need one man to work them. What we should be doing is buying in those machines. But we can’t, because there’s no money in it, because the big landlords have their slave factories. Get rid of slavery, you can take the woollen cloth trade away from the aristocrats, which is the only way you’ll be able to keep it in this country in the face of Imperial competition. Carry on the way things are now and we’ll be reduced to selling raw wool instead of finished cloth, and that won’t last long, believe me. We’ll be in exactly the same mess as Permia, or maybe even worse.”
“Interesting,” the abbot murmured. “Go on.”
Phrantzes wanted to stop and consider what the question really was, but by now he couldn’t help himself, just as a drowning man can’t help thrashing his arms. “Also,” he said, “you’ve got thousands, tens of thousands of slaves, all getting fed barley bread, which we’ve got to import from the West, which just makes the balance of payments problem worse. Free those men, put them on farms of their own in the Demilitarised Zone, where they can feed themselves and produce a saleable surplus, and you’re a big step closer to solving the foreign exchange deficit. Also, once we’ve got people living in the Demilitarised Zone, with a damn good reason for defending it, maybe the Permians won’t be so keen to invade it again. At the moment, it’s just empty, practically a desert. We can’t send our own people there, we lost so many men in the War we can’t farm our own country, let alone colonise the DMZ. Get rid of slavery, you solve two problems in one go, and it won’t cost the Exchequer a bent trachy.”
The abbot pursed his lips. “It’s refreshing,” he said, “the way you address the issue without any recourse to arguments based on morality. In my line of work, I hear so much about right and wrong, I sometimes lose sight of the real issues. Thank you.” He stood up, staggered a little, put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Cramp,” he said. “I find sitting still for too long very trying.” He walked slowly and painfully to the door, and opened it. “I think that’s everything,” he said. “For
Phrantzes shrugged. “I really couldn’t say,” he said. “Hanging him wouldn’t bring the Senator back.”
“You surprise me. I’d have thought you’d want to see justice done.”
“Well, he’s been caught.” For some reason, Phrantzes felt he should choose his words carefully. “I’m sure he’ll get a fair trial, and the court will do what’s best.”
“You have a touching faith in our justice system.”
“Well, yes. Or I used to. Look, I’m sorry, but what’s all this got to do with me? Please, tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I just want to get out of here.”
But the abbot didn’t seem to be listening, or maybe he was a bit deaf. “Mihel Rhangabe was a radical,” he said. “Do you agree with what he was trying to do?”
Phrantzes pulled a confused face. How could he be expected to remember details of points of current affairs that didn’t really concern him very much, when he’d just been arrested on a spurious charge and interrogated by an elderly lunatic? “By and large, I suppose,” he said. “I mean, banning slavery, that makes sense.”
“Go on.”
Phrantzes considered for a moment, collecting his thoughts like a general rallying his surviving troops after a massacre. “You’ve got two dozen or so aristocrats owning huge factories producing high-volume, low-quality woollen cloth,” he said. “They’ve got a thousand or so slaves working hand looms; practically no overheads, they produce the raw material themselves, so they can trim their profit margin and make their money by selling in bulk to the Western Empire. But in the Empire, they don’t have slaves, instead they’ve got machines that’ll do the work of a hundred men and only need one man to work them. What we should be doing is buying in those machines. But we can’t, because there’s no money in it, because the big landlords have their slave factories. Get rid of slavery, you can take the woollen cloth trade away from the aristocrats, which is the only way you’ll be able to keep it in this country in the face of Imperial competition. Carry on the way things are now and we’ll be reduced to selling raw wool instead of finished cloth, and that won’t last long, believe me. We’ll be in exactly the same mess as Permia, or maybe even worse.”
“Interesting,” the abbot murmured. “Go on.”
Phrantzes wanted to stop and consider what the question really was, but by now he couldn’t help himself, just as a drowning man can’t help thrashing his arms. “Also,” he said, “you’ve got thousands, tens of thousands of slaves, all getting fed barley bread, which we’ve got to import from the West, which just makes the balance of payments problem worse. Free those men, put them on farms of their own in the Demilitarised Zone, where they can feed themselves and produce a saleable surplus, and you’re a big step closer to solving the foreign exchange deficit. Also, once we’ve got people living in the Demilitarised Zone, with a damn good reason for defending it, maybe the Permians won’t be so keen to invade it again. At the moment, it’s just empty, practically a desert. We can’t send our own people there, we lost so many men in the War we can’t farm our own country, let alone colonise the DMZ. Get rid of slavery, you solve two problems in one go, and it won’t cost the Exchequer a bent trachy.”
The abbot pursed his lips. “It’s refreshing,” he said, “the way you address the issue without any recourse to arguments based on morality. In my line of work, I hear so much about right and wrong, I sometimes lose sight of the real issues. Thank you.” He stood up, staggered a little, put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Cramp,” he said. “I find sitting still for too long very trying.” He walked slowly and painfully to the door, and opened it. “I think that’s everything,” he said. “For
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