by Andre Norton
“Terran,” Kyger announced with a note of pride plain in his voice. “Terran cats!”
THREE
Troy studied the animals. Although those blue eyes regarded him squarely, there was no other contact. Yet he was sure it had not been only his imagination that had stirred him earlier.
Kyger opened the cage. The black cat arose, arched its satin-smooth back, extended forelegs in a luxurious stretch, and then padded out into the courtyard, its blue companion remaining behind while the black scouted with eyes and nose.
“Sooooo—” Kyger subdued his usual authoritative tone into a coaxing murmur and held out his hand for the black to sniff.
Cats were part of the crew of every spaceship. Troy had seen them about the docks. But centuries of such star voyaging must have radically mutated the strain if these were the parent stock. None of those possessed such sleek length of limb, or the sharply pointed muzzle, large, delicately shaped ears, color and rich beauty of fur. He might have compared his own bony, work-scarred hand to the well-kept fingers of a Korwarian villa dweller.
The black leaped, effortlessly, to the top of the cage, and its smaller mate emerged. From that mouth ringed in dark gray came no soft appeal but a sound closer to the ear-shattering wail that had screeched through the flitter before the crash. Kyger laughed.
“Hungry, eh?” He spoke to one of the yardmen.” Bring me a food packet.”
Troy watched the merchant break open the sealed container and shake a portion of its contents into the bowls he had loosed from the interior of the cage. The stuff—tough, dry-looking as it sifted down—turned moist and puffy in the dishes. The cats sniffed and then ate decorously.
They were to be Kyger’s own charges, Troy discovered, though the shop had a resident staff—two yardmen to tend the cages in the courtyard and some for interior work. Oddly enough, Troy was set to work inside, perhaps taking over some of Zul’s tasks.
His shoulder still ached from the bruising impact of the crash, but he tried to satisfy Kyger as the other guided him around, issuing a stream of orders, which at least were concise and easy to obey.
Of the four cage rooms along the corridor between office and show lounges, the first two were for birds, or flying things that might be roughly classed under that heading. Troy had to snatch observations between filling water containers, spreading out a wealth of seeds, exotic fruits, and even bits of meat and fish. The next two chambers were dissimilar. One was filled with tanks and aquariums holding marine dwellers; Troy merely glanced into that since there was a trained tankman on duty. The other was for small animals.
The cats disappeared into Kyger’s own office and Troy did not see them again. Nor, as he worked about the cages in the animal room, did he again experience that odd, somewhat disturbing sense of invisible contact. All the creatures were friendly enough, many of them clamoring for his attention, reaching out to him with paws, calling in a whole range of sounds. He was amused, intrigued, attracted—but this was not the same.
He ate his noon rations in the courtyard, apart from Kyger’s other employees. C.L. men and subcitizens were never too friendly. And in the midafternoon he witnessed the departure of the Terran cats.
A service robot carried the traveling cage and a food crate at the head of the small procession. Then came a jeweled vision of the hired-companion class, for she swung several small bags on their cords. Next, trailed diffidently by Kyger—if that ex-spacer could ever act a merchant’s deference—was a second woman, her features hard to distinguish under the modish painted design of glitter stars on cheek and forehead, the now ultrafashionable “modesty veil” enwrapping mouth, chin, and the rest of her head. Her long coat and tight undertrousers were smartly severe and as unadorned as her companion’s were ornately embellished.
As she spoke, her voice held the irremediable lisp of the Lydian-born. And it was plain she was delighted with her new pets. Troy ducked into the door of the fish room to let them pass.
He did not understand why he felt that strange prick of irritation. The Gentle Fem San duk Var was almost the wealthiest consort on Korwar, and the cats had been specially ordered to satisfy her whim. Why did he resent their going? Why? He had had his own piece of luck out of this transaction—the chance that Kyger might keep him on the staff, at least until Zul returned.
Kyger, having seen the party off, called Troy to his office. The com plate on the wall was already activated, and on it was the palm-sized length of white Troy had hardly dared to hope he would ever see.
“Contract”—Kyger was clearly in a hurry to have this done—“to hold a seven-day term. No off-world clause. Suit you, Horan?”
Troy nodded. Even a seven-day contract was to be cherished. He asked only one question. “Renewal for kind?”
“Renewal for kind,” the other agreed without hesitation, and Troy’s confidence soared. He crossed the small room, set his right hand flat against that glowing plate. “Troy Horan, Norden, class two, accepts contract for seven days, not off-world, from Kyger’s,” he recited, allowing his hand to remain tight against the heated panel for a full moment before he gave way to Kyger.
The other’s hand, wider, the fingers thicker and blunter at the tips, smacked against the white oblong in turn.
“Kossi Kyger, registered merchant, accepts contract for seven days from Troy Horan, laborer. Record it so.”
The metallic voice of the recorder chattered back at them. “It is so sealed and noted.”
Kyger returned to his eazi-rest. “Shop uniform in the storehouse. Any reason for you to go back to the Dipple tonight?”
Troy paused to shake his head. His few possessions of any value had been thumb-locked into a Dipple safe pocket that morning. And the lock would hold against any touch but his own for ten days. He could pick up the contents of that very small locker any time. Was it imagination again, or did Kyger seem to be relieved?
“Zul furnished night watch inside here. One man inside, a yardman out, a patroller on alarm call. Some of the stock are delicate. You’ll make two rounds—”
He was interrupted by the showroom gong and pulled himself to his feet. “Change and get to work,” he ordered as he left the office.
Troy sealed the fore seam of the shop coveralls and strapped on again his rider’s belt. The Kyger livery was of the same dark blue that Kyger affected in his own garments, and it did not include the reptileskin boots Zul had worn—nor was there any knife for the belt. He had risen one short step above the Dipple, but that was all.
Shopping hours ran on into the late evening, and twice Troy was summoned to the display rooms to carry in some animate treasure for inspection. He had just returned a squirming cub, listed as an animal but with fluffy feathers instead of fur and six legs waving wildly in the air, a big-eared head digging chin point into Troy’s shoulder as it looked with avid interest at the world, to a cage, where three more of its kind immediately fell upon it in mock attack, when Kyger came to the door.
“That closes us for tonight. Guard quarters are next to the storeroom. I’m aloft—over there.” He jerked a thumb at the back wall of the courtyard and the line of windows looking out from a second level. “Here—” His hand cupped over a knob of brilliant scarlet just inside the door and now glowing in the subdued light of the cage room. “Need help, hit one of these. There’s one in each room. You’ll make rounds at three, again at six. Meanwhile”—below the knob was a lever he pushed up—“you’ll be able to hear them through the com if there’s any disturbance. The yard cages are not your concern.”
“Yes, Merchant,” Troy assented.
Kyger went on down the corridor, stopping to thumb-seal the door of his office—almost ostentatiously, as if he wanted his most recent employee to witness that act.
Then, without any good night, he was gone. Troy felt the nudge of responsibility. He stepped inside each bird room. The light was dimmed; many of the inhabitants were now asleep. In every room the lever was up, the com safely on. Then he went to the pad
ded wall shelf in the cubby off the storeroom, still a little too excited to sleep.
Within a matter of three days the pattern of Kyger’s had become a routine into which Troy fitted easily. He had been successful in caring for a delicate and rare fussel hawk, which Kyger himself had been unable to handle, and had began to hope that perhaps his week’s contract might indeed be renewed. He also discovered that Kyger’s not only sold—but bought.
There was a second entrance to the shop through the courtyard, an inconspicuous covered way through which men, mostly wearing spacer uniform, found their way, with either carrying cages or other wild-life containers. All of these, he had his orders, were to be shown directly to Kyger’s private office. And should the merchant be busied with customers, a certain signal of gong notes was to be sounded.
At the conclusion of one of these visits Troy, or a yardman, would be summoned to take away a purchase. But the majority of these were sheltered in the yard, not among the rarities of the inner shop. And it appeared to Troy that the number of such sellers did not match the number of visitors—as if some of those unobtrusive men might have visited the ex-spacer for another reason. But that too might have an easy explanation; shipmates from old runs could well drop in while in port. Or there might be still a third reason—one that fitted the attack made upon Zul himself with the interest Varms had shown.
Tikil was a luxury port. And the luxuries were not always within the bands of legal imports. Troy could name four forbidden drugs, a banned liquor, and several other items that would never arrive openly on the planet but would promise high returns for the men or man reckless enough to run them through port scanners. If Kyger had activities outside the port laws, however, that was none of his cage cleaner’s concern.
On the fourth afternoon after he had taken contract, Troy was called to the showrooms. Two customers were present, and Kyger’s attention had been claimed by the one who, with her party, was in the outer lounge. He waved Horan to the man waiting.
“Show this Gentle Homo the box of tri-dees from Hathor. Yes, Gentle Fem”—the merchant turned back to the glittering party he was serving—“there are many other Terran beasts which one might consider, fully equal in beauty and intelligence to cats. Let me show you—”
When Troy would have led the way to the next lounge, the man he was to assist stopped him with a shake of the head. It appeared that he also wanted to see the wonder Kyger was about to reveal.
The merchant pressed a button. A small viewing screen moved outward from the wall at a comfortable eye level for the woman in the foreseat of the party. She was older than Var’s consort, and far more elaborately dressed, affecting the semitransparent robes of Cynus, though they were not in the least flattering to her emaciated figure. Her voice was a shrill caw, but as Troy caught sight of her sharp-featured profile, he knew her for the Grand Leader One from Sidona. That was a matriarchate in name only now, a cluster of three small planets about a dying sun. But it still occupied a strategic point on an important star lane, and what power the Grand Leader Ones might have lost in battle they still possessed in alliances.
“This, Gentle Fem”—Kyger clicked thumb and finger together and was answered by the instant appearance on the screen of a tri-dee—“is a fox. I have already a pair in transit so I can promise an early delivery.”
“So?” The Grand Leader One leaned forward a little, the corners of her pinched mouth drawing down to deepen lines from a beak nose. “And how many credits will the coming of such take from my purse, Merchant?”
Kyger named a sum that five days earlier would have made Troy incredulous. Now he merely wondered how long the bargaining would continue.
“A fox, now,” the man standing beside him said very softly, his observation hardly above a whisper, as if he were thinking aloud.
The animal in the tri-dee was clearly depicted life-size, the usual procedure for smaller beasts. It had a thick coat of Orange-red, black legs and feet, a white tip on its brush of tail. The head was almost triangular with sharp-pointed ears and muzzle, and greenish eyes slanted in that alert and mischievous mask. It was larger than the cats, but its expression of sly intelligence was most marked.
But something in the way his own waiting customer had said “fox” suggested to Troy that the other was not unacquainted with the Terran exotic. However, he did not linger now but stepped into the second lounge, and Horan had to accompany him.
“I understand you have a fussel hawk.”
“That is so, Gentle Homo.”
“Have you flown it yet?”
“No, Gentle Homo. The ship passage left it fretful—we have allowed it cage rest.”
Those strangely golden eyes flickered to Troy’s middle and the wide belt there.
“You are of Norden?”
“I was born there,” Troy replied shortly.
“Then you have perhaps already hunted with a fussel.”
Troy’s lips twitched. “I have seen such hunting. But Norden is many years behind me, Gentle Homo. There was a war.” He kept his tone respectful; in fact he was a little surprised. The stranger had no signs, such as Kyger carried, of being an ex-spacer. Yet not one Korwarian in ten thousand would have recognized Troy’s belt, or would have known that the riders of the Norden-that-was had hunted with fussel hawks in the mountain valleys. He studied the other covertly as he made ready the viewing screen.
They were nearly the same height, but the Korwarian was perhaps ton planet years older. He did not have the look of a villa aristocrat, not even of one who played hard and kept his body in top condition. Since he wore no official uniform, he was not a member of any of the three services. Yet plainly he was a man who knew action and the outdoors. His skin must be as fair as Troy’s under the even tan of much exposure. In a concession to fashion he had a braided topknot of hair, banded with two golden hold rings, and the hair was a dull red-gold, not far removed in shade from the metal. His loose tunic and kilt were of a creamy-brown nubb-metalla in which a small golden spark flashed here and there as he moved. There were yellow gems in the hilt of his belt knife and ringing his wrist bracelets, so that the whole effect was that of a golden man, yet did not in any way suggest a villa fop.
“I have not seen you here before. Where is Zul?” There was no arrogance in the question. The stranger asked as if he had a real interest in who might serve him.
“He was injured—there was a flitter smash,” Troy replied somewhat evasively, and then added with the strict truth, “I am C.L., on a fill-time contract.”
“From the Dipple?” The other gave the name none of the accent that had made that place of abode a fighting word in Tikil. “Well, and what has Kyger got to offer in his Hathor tri-dees?”
He seated himself at last, waving aside the selection of smoke sticks and drinks Troy offered. Horan snapped the button and the first of the views flashed on the screen. It was apparent from the series that this would-be customer was interested only in birds of prey that could be trained for the hunt. But when Troy had run through the entire Hathor collection, the man shook his head.
“When one knows there is a fine weapon within reach, one does not pick up the second best. If Kyger has a fussel worth training, I shall not order from these.” Now he did pick a smoke stick, struck it against his fingernail to set it burning with its herb-scented smoke. “Ah, Kyger!” He looked up as the merchant entered. “And did you make that stellar sale? How long will the august mother of three worlds have to wait for her new toy?”
There was something in the lounge, as invisible as the touch from the cats’ cage. This was a tenseness, the faintest possible suggestion of strain. Yet both men were outwardly at ease. Kyger seated himself in another chair as if there were no barriers of rank between them.
“Not too long. I have a pair arriving on the Shammor.”
“So? Gambling in Terran imports now, Kyger?”
The ex-spacer shrugged. “They want to build up their export trade—and they are willing to pare prices to ope
n a new market. My friends on the ships pass the word—”
His customer nodded. “Yes. Well, trade makes ties to defeat war. And if you can get the Terrans well tied up, you’ll have the smiles of the Council, Kyger.”
Again that flash of feeling. Troy could not be sure which man was involved. The golden man stubbed out his smoke stick.
“You have a fussel—”
Kyger picked up a refreshment bulb, squeezed its contents into his mouth. “I have. It’ll have to prove itself in flight, though, before I market it.”
“Just so. I am due to make an inspection trip through the Wild. Trust me with that testing—send along your man here.”
Kyger glanced at Horan. “All right. He knows how to handle the bird, uncrated it when the rest of us couldn’t get near. Very well, Hunter. When do you wish to leave, and for how long?”
“Three days to be gone. I must swing up as far as the Marches. As to when—well, shall we say in two days? That will give your bird that much longer to rest before we take him out.”
Kyger crushed the beverage bulb in one hand. “Agreed. You,” he said to Troy, “will hold yourself ready for the Hunter Rerne’s orders.”
The golden man left, walking with an almost soundless tread that Troy did not now find surprising. Kyger continued to sit for a long moment, his eyes still on the door through which the other had gone.
“Rerne.” He repeated that name very softly. If there was any expression in his tone, Troy failed to read it.
The Hunters, the rangers of the Wild, were conservation experts. Guardians of the vast sections of carefully preserved forest and unsettled lands, into which parties of visitors or the villa dwellers of Korwar might be guided to enjoy the thrills of primitive living while still in flyer touch with the safety and luxury of civilization, they were almost legendary in Tikil. And the office had become, through two centuries, hereditary, going to the members of some ten or twelve families, all of them First-Ship pioneers on Korwar.