"We spotted you by the blazer," he said. "Baby blue and gold braid stand out in a crowd."
Retief nodded. "The uniform has its uses," he agreed. He tried the drink. "Say, what is this? It's not bad."
"Sugarweed rum. Made from a marine plant. We have plenty of ocean here on Glave; there's only the one continent, you know, and it's useless for agriculture."
"Weather?"
"That's part of it. Glave is moving into what would be a major glaciation if it weren't for a rather elaborate climatic control installation. Then there are the tides. Half the continent would be inundated twice a year when our satellite is at aphelion; there's a system of baffles, locks and deep-water pumps that maintain the shore-line more or less constant. We still keep our cities well inland. Then there are the oxygen generators, the atmosphere filtration complex, vermin control and so on. Glave in its natural state is a rather hostile world."
"I'm surprised that your mines can support it all."
"Oh, they don't." Corasol shook his head. "Two hundred years ago, when the company first opened up Glave, it was economical enough. Quintite was a precious mineral in those days. Synthetics have long since taken over. Even fully automated, the mines barely support the public services and welfare system."
"I seem to recall a reference in the Post Report to the effect that a company petition to vacate its charter had been denied...."
Corasol nodded, smiling wryly. "The CDT seemed to feel that as long as any of the world's residents desired to remain, the Company was constrained to oblige them. The great majority departed long ago, of course. Relocated to other operational areas. Only the untrainables, living off welfare funds—and a skeleton staff of single men to operate the technical installations—have stayed on."
"That explains the mechanics of the recent uprising," Retief said.