by Andre Norton
But the fifth time Dane had explained that they were expected by Prime Facilitator Koytatik, the latest Kanddoyd functionary, a Kanddoyd male sporting fabulous carapace designs in patterns of red, obsidian, and yellow stones, said, "It would please me the remainder of my days if the honored Terrans would permit me to escort them to the prime facilitator they seek, there to embrace quickly the important business that awaits."
While he talked, he was making all kinds of rhythmic noises. Dane tabbed his belt recorder and made similar noises as he said, "The greatest
pleasure of our day would be provided in following your excellent self to this meeting, O Locutor Telkdidd."
"Then," the locutor said, humming and clacking away, "may I humbly request the Terrans to fall in step with me?"
"We shall do so at once, with pleasure and alacrity," Dane said.
Again Rip felt the impulse to grin. This sounded so unlike the laconic Viking he was used to! But Dane had changed a lot since he first joined the Queen, he thought as once again they started wending their way under vine-decorated archways and past tiled doors. Only Dane’s change had been so gradual, no one had really noticed—any more than one notices oneself changing.
Finally they reached a fine set of doors with a beautiful mosaic depicting a nova. Inside, a splendidly decorated female Kanddoyd greeted them—adding, Rip suspected, five full minutes of compliments to honor Rip’s being along.
Dane responded patiently, his fingers working his belt to make noises that matched those of the facilitator.
Finally she said, "And now I bring myself with glorious emotions to the enabling of your completion of your exalted business. Your estimable colleagues at the Terran Free Trade headquarters have obligingly furnished us with a copy of the quitclaim that the heirs of the Starvenger made upon their ship, duly abandoned after serious illness rapidly overtook their crew. I salute with sympathetic gesture this ill luck." She paused, and the noises she made reminded Rip of the keening praifu-dogs of Ypsilon IV. "But so is life in the remorseless universe, as all beings must agree: one’s loss is another’s benefit, and this time, the benefit goes to the honorable Captain Jellico and his distinguished crew."
Dane grinned, forgetting to make Kanddoyd noises with his belt recorder; he and Rip raised their fists and rapped their knuckles together in the old gesture of triumph.
The facilitator watched, making high chirping sounds and a pleasant series of notes almost like a guitar being plucked in cheery major chords. "Herewith I tender to you the official papers, and the chip whereon your ownership has been duly recorded. Your good captain is now free to acquire items for trade from our splendid markets, and to go forth into successful business ventures in Terran space!" She started to rise, her noises merry and rapid.
Dane took the chip and slid it into his tunic pocket. He bent over the paper, scanning it quickly, then looked up. "Might we beg a few more moments of your time, Prime Facilitator? I have a question."
Her mandibles clacked; Rip suspected the sound indicated surprise.
"Is not the paper in correct Terran ideographs? Is something amiss with the information? Our offices will be desolated if we have effected error—"
"No, no, it looks fine," Dane said hastily. "It’s just that the paper here only lists the names of the former owners— Olben Kayusha and Nim Miscoigne. There’s no communication code or even a world of origin. All it says is that the claim is relinquished, and the official notations to that effect."
"I do not understand." The prime facilitator’s reedy voice dropped, now sounding like a violin slightly out of tune. "Here we have the correct forms, as agreed between our three estimable races in the venerable Concord of Harmony."
Rip saw Dane wince slightly and shake his head, and thumb the jeweled ring on his middle finger. Rip saw a blue light flash briefly. Then Dane looked up and said, "I just thought there’d be information about the former owners on these papers."
"Ah! You are careful, Gentle Trader, and this indicates an excellent being of business acumen. We congratulate you upon your perspicacity, for this is an attribute well loved among my people." She produced a flurry of sounds. "The papers are correct; if you had completed a sale, then indeed, gracing the forms would be all the information you refer to. But such is not traditional in relinquishment of title."
"Is there a way we can find out where the former owners are?" Dane asked.
Koytatik droned on a weird note. "Alas!" she keened. "To my sorrow I apprehend that our distinguished guests do not, in fact, trust the operatives of our registry precincts—"
"That’s not it at all," Dane said. He took a quick swipe at his brow, and shot a pained look at Rip. "I, uh, we just had a question or two we were hoping you’d help us with. What we’d like to do is find out where those old owners are, or who their heirs are, and, well—"
Rip heard Dane falter. Captain Jellico had said they could try to find out who the old owners were—but they both knew he would not authorize risking an upset with local authorities just to satisfy their curiosity. Rip said quickly, "It’s the custom where we come from to send our condolences to the relinquishing party. Just so there’s no hard feelings."
Again the prime facilitator produced an array of sounds. None of them were unpleasant, but Rip felt a slight twinge behind his eyes, as if the air pressure in the room had dropped briefly. "I perceive!" she exclaimed. "Abject apologies do I owe to you, good Traders, for the length with which my poor faculties were unable to comprehend the laudable sentiments under which you labor. Alas, it is my profound regret to inform you that such is not customary through my registry. I must abase myself before you; it will take time for me to supplicate my superiors, to discover the proper forms with which to afford you this special request."
Dane glanced up. Rip knew he was hearing the same thing: special request probably means special fees.
Dane got to his feet. "Perhaps we can return to this question some other time, then. You are busy, and we have to give this data back to our captain."
The prime facilitator also rose, and again began the long litany of compliments, but this time the sounds seemed subtly different. Rip watched the blue light flicker on Dane’s ring, and wondered what the ultrasonics meant.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the ubiquitous Kanddoyd guides, both men paused on the causeway. Rip said, "Deadend?"
Dane nodded. "Apparently so. I guess we could try to pursue it—if we had time, and money." He glanced down at the paper again. "The registry fees are stiff enough, but the captain said that they’d figured those into our budget. I hadn’t counted on extra fees for this data. Thought it’d be
included."
"I’ve got an idea," Rip said. "Why don’t we try Trade’s com center? If we get humans there, it might be easier to explain and initiate a search, at least."
"Good thinking." The tall cargo apprentice led the way back inside.
Rip realized that Dane had spent much of his free time exploring around; he knew exactly where to go.
Once again they encountered Kanddoyd functionaries, but this time, when they made it plain they wanted to go to the Terran Sphere’s office in the communications center, they were passed on with what must have seemed to the Kanddoyds incredible speed.
It was a relief to both apprentices when they walked into the office and saw the usual fabulous holos of different planets with their relative times and dates ticking off the passing seconds, and the illuminated directions flashing in countless alphabets. Trade Service communications offices were much the same everywhere, then, right down to the preponderance of humanoid workers behind the counters.
There were even, Rip noted with an inward smile, lines; they joined the one below a holographic designation that indicated communications going to Solar system planets and moons.
The woman immediately before them wore the insignia of Inter-Stellar. She glanced back with disinterest, then turned around again.
Rip nodded politely when his eyes met
hers, but he felt no compunction to chat. They’d had too many unpleasant encounters with I-S in the past, and instinct warned him against having to answer even the easiest questions now.
But the woman showed no disposition to talk to them while the man at the front of the line finished his business. At last it was her turn; she handed over a chip, apparently pre-registered, received one in return, and she was gone a moment later.
The young man behind the counter scanned their Free Trader brown tunics with the apprentice insignia, then said in a bored voice, "Chip or
flimsy?"
"Neither—" Dane started.
The worker cut in. "We don’t write mail for you. Keyboards over there." He nodded to some little booths on the adjacent wall. "Translation charges flat fee."
Rip said, "We want to run an ID check first—Free Traders, just like us. We’re off the Solar Queen, Terra registry six-five-seven-two-four-nine-one-zero-JK."
The bored clerk keyed in the number as quickly as Rip spoke it, and waited with unconcealed impatience for a few seconds. He plainly expected the ID to come up green so he could get on with the request; after a long pause, he gave an impatient sigh and tapped at his console.
"Must be a data jam," he muttered. "Just to make sure, let’s have that number again."
This time Dane spoke it, slowly and clearly. The man typed it in equally slowly; then his boredom changed to perplexity as he stared at his blank screen. "My com must be down. Wait here." He shut down his console and disappeared through a narrow door directly behind him.
They stood at the counter as, on either side of them, several people came and went. Fewer people were left in the room now; none had come in for a time.
Presently Dane, who had been scanning the papers, said, "Interesting."
"What?" Rip asked, watching one of the techs close down her computer and blank the sign above her cubicle.
"Date the claim was registered is only in some local time or other. I thought everything was supposed to be in Terran Standard."
"Maybe not out this far," Rip said. "Look, that counter over there is empty—"
Just then the door behind the counter where they stood opened again, but instead of the bored young man, a tall Shver with arcane caste markings on his forehead and arms trod with heavy step to the counter, and looked down at the two Queen's men. "Inquire you?" he said, his voice so deep Rip almost felt it through the floor.
"Thanks, we’re just waiting for the other worker to return," Rip said.
"Is end of shift for his," the Shver said. "Am the Jheel of Clan Golm. Serve I now."
"We are trying to locate the IDs of some Free Traders, registered through Terran Trade Service, like ourselves," Dane said.
The Shver looked impassively at them, his thick fingers resting as if by chance on his shauv, the serrated honor knife all adult Shver wore. Rip wondered if the beings had any natural expressions besides a kind of detached glower. "Is your ID?"
"Dane Thorson, apprentice cargo master, Solar Queen, and Rip Shannon, apprentice astrogator, also of the Solar Queen," Dane said, and then for the third time quoted the registration number.
The Shver worked at the console, which was now tipped at an angle to accomodate his great height—and from which the others could not see his screen. "Is names of other Traders?" he asked presently.
"Olben Kayusha and Nim Miscoigne," Rip said, writing them hastily on a scrap of paper with his pocket stylus. He pushed the paper across to the Shver, who picked it up and laid it down again out of sight before he began to work at the console.
In silence the Queen's men waited. Rip noticed that they were the last in the room.
At last the Shver looked up and said, "Data jam; take too much hours. Is close time. Return you tomorrow."
Rip opened his mouth, but it was too late. The Shver had closed down the console, and lumbered back through the door, closing it firmly.
A moment later plasglas shields came down, walling off the counters, and the holo lights all went off.
Rip and Dane looked at each other, shrugged, then turned and left.
"So we come back," Rip said. "Come on, let’s go nose out the Movable Feast, see what’s so special about their beer."
8
Captain Jellico looked up at his cargo master, determined not to show any of the exasperation he felt.
"So you’re saying that I-S cargo master cut in and took your deal?"
Van Ryke’s white brows formed a line of perplexity in his face. "I wish it were that simple," he said. "I don’t think Mdango cut in on us—I think that Tapadakk offered her my deal, but did it in such a way as to make it look like I-S pulled the deal out from under us."
Jellico let his breath out slowly. "Any idea why?"
Van Ryke lifted his hands. "If I knew that, I could have done some fast talking and saved it. He’s been most apologetic, but only over the com. I can’t seem to get to him to agree to see me in person. But it’s only been an hour; for Kanddoyds, that’s an impossible rush. What I want to make certain of is if he’s suddenly changed his mind and doesn’t want to deal with us at all. If so, why?"
"Has Mdango or any of her crew been talking us down?"
Van Ryke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It would be the most obvious explanation. The Queen had run afoul of Inter-Stellar ships in the past, and despite the fact that the Queen was only one ship, and I-S was a huge Company, big Companies were made up of human beings, most of whom were as loyal to their Companies as the Queen's crew were to the Solar Queen. Jellico knew that there were plenty of people in I-S who might like to see a bit of revenge taken for the Queen's wins over some of their colleagues.
"I don’t get the impression they’ve heard anything about us at all," Van Ryke said slowly. "I think their ship, the Corvallis, has been making runs in totally different lanes than we’ve been used to. No one in our crew has reported any negative encounters, or even any comments, from their crew up in the recreation areas—and we humanoid Traders stand out up there, so it’s not like they couldn’t find us if they half tried."
"All right," Jellico said. "Then we’ll rule out malice—at least on the part of I-S. Now, what about Tapadakk?"
Van Ryke sighed. "It is possible, except it wouldn’t make any sense. We spent four solid days dancing around in their interminable negotiations, and I can’t believe even a Kanddoyd would spend all that time for nothing. He seemed eager to deal; our cargo isn’t all that tempting, but he’s got a surplus of mosaic works of various sorts that we could move pretty well back in Terran space, where they are rarer, and he did have two or three buyers set up in a complicated ring. He just seemed to be waiting for us to get our papers on Starvenger and wind up our registry business."
"That was yesterday," Jellico said.
Van Ryke nodded. "Tapadakk and I finished our talk about the time Thorson and Shannon left registry yesterday, with our papers in hand, so we know it’s nothing to do with that. Anyway, that’s about the time we set up today’s meeting. Then an hour ago, I get this com message—just before I’m to leave for our meeting to accomplish what I hoped was the last stage of negotiation—and he ups and tells me that he’s not good enough, his goods aren’t good enough, he’s desolately and abjectly sorry but our exalted trade would grace another cargo better, et cetera et cetera. I thought I’d go over and try to get him in person again."
Jellico nodded. "Right. Do what you can. We’re running out of time."
Van Ryke nodded and walked out.
Jellico leaned back in his chair and glared at the various calculations Wilcox had printed out for him. Then he tabbed the intercom. "Ya."
"Captain?" came the comtech’s voice.
"Progress?"
"Still working—I have some algorithms roughed out that might be what we need."
"Keep at it."
"Right, Captain."
They both cut the connection. The hoobat let out a sudden metal-rending shriek, and Jellico grabbed his chair to anchor himself and
reached to give the cage a swat.
"Fnerble," Queex squawked, settling down happily as the cage rocked and bounced.
"Just what I was thinking," Miceal Jellico said grimly.
Karl Kosti leaned back in the padded seat and stared out at the long tubes of the Kanddoyd buildings. He rather liked the crazy curves and angles, the strings of lights. He was in a good mood. His muscles ached from a good workout in heavy grav, and he had an excellent meal before him, and something interesting to look at. It entertained him to figure out how to power this habitat and the buildings inside it.
It would have been nicer if he could have eaten in decent grav, but the gym for Traders was down in Shver territory, a rare concession. Of course they wouldn’t have food places there. The Shver didn’t like outsiders, and they didn’t like public eating. Plain, straightforward. Karl rather liked the Shver. He preferred them to the gyrating, buzzing, clacking Kanddoyds who talked in such convoluted sentences it was like their mouths were full of mush. The Shver said exactly what they thought, or they kept silent. He appreciated that—and he also liked them as sparring partners in the gym. For once he didn’t have to worry about going easy on his partner, for they massed a lot more than he did. He liked that too. Few humans massed as much as he, and fewer of those were anywhere near as strong.
He tabbed the heat button on his bulb of spiced wine and sipped, enjoying the pleasant tang on his tongue, and the warmth down his throat. His eyes stayed on the buildings as, gradually, the chatter of the spacehounds around him resolved from white noise into individual words.
"... hijackers," someone said.
Hijackers? Karl didn’t want to look—ordinarily he despised gossip, but that subject would get anyone’s attention.
"I wonder how much credit it takes to smooth that one over," a woman said. Her voice was sharp.