Income was down this month, and for no reason he could see. The population was stable; there was no civil upheaval; expenditures were virtually nil this far into the backwaters. "Humanoid, Feudal. Hm. Let's tweak taxes up half a point and see what happens. Reminder to check back after a couple of cycles. Right; next planet: Phyllirides Beta 7..."

 

It was all in the rhythm: Step-swing; recover. Step-swing; recover. Follow the same motions to the end of the row; turn; start back. Step-swing; recover...

 

It took the farmer eight thousand strokes to mow each acre; he always tried to count, always lost track. But one year he'd kept his count through an entire row, which was a furlong in length, and came to exactly a thousand strokes. Down and back four times, and that was an acre; stop to sharpen halfway, and then again at the end, and that was time for lunch. Two acres a day, gathering and binding every third day -- you had to let the wheat dry or it would sprout mold -- and twenty acres was his harvest. Then, after threshing, the straw would be baled and sold to the brickmaker, and the grain collected -- forty bushels an acre, less two saved for seed -- and hauled to the mill, which took for its fee one pound of flour for every ten ground. His Lordship's man took another pound per ten, and the carter took his piece. Some little went in trade for needfuls, but that still left near ten ton per harvest for sale. Two harvests per year, plus his flock of chickens and the kitchen garden, and a man could live in some comfort.

 

Provided, that is, he never took sick. Or that it never rained during harvest, which it had last year, spoiling six whole rows. That the wind never come up, which it always did, blowing away the stacks before threshing. That the miller was honest, which this one was; though his son bore watching. That the co-operative got a good price on flour, which some years they did, and some not so much.

 

But this had been a good harvest, which meant he might just have enough money on hand to clear the last of his debt, the loan he'd taken to buy his steading twenty years before. With that off his back, he could finally see his way clear to save up for a marriage license. It would be good to have someone to help in the fields come harvest, to help with cooking and chores; hell, just to talk to of an evening. Then, maybe, after a time, some younguns to raise up -- another loan, a second field...

 

These thoughts occupied his mind through the end of harvest and down to the mill, where the miller's son was taking his turn. The farmer cursed under his breath and set to watching.

 

His Lordship's man came by. "I s'pose you heard, the tax is up half a pound in ten this year."

 

"No, I hadn't. When was this decided?"

 

The man shrugged. "Not in council. Order came down from On High, they say. Not for the likes of you and me to know. Anyhow, thought I'd better tell you now, before you had your profits all spent before you'd got them in hand."

 

Never before had the farmer been tempted to cheat the tax man; but then, never before had he been this close to paying off his loan. He glared ferociously at the back of His Lordship's factor, then turned his eyes back on the young miller, who wilted visibly. There would be little grain "accidentally" spilled today, but it wouldn't be enough. He'd still owe on his debt for another year. Damn the Lords and their meddling!

 

Income was back up, but now the population was in a decline and happiness down a full point. That would never do. "Taxes back down to former levels, and watch population growth. Reminder to check back next cycle. Next planet..."