Deloran opened his mind, chancing a light probe. As usual, the. thoughts were a shimmering, amorphous mass, virtually impossible of precise analysis, but there was an ever-recurring antagonism theme, more basic than mere disapproval of an erring employee. And, there was a fear motif. Deloran risked a quick, sharply directed thought.
The fear thread stood out more sharply, grading into hatred. Diore started to rise to his feet, his neck suddenly turning pale.
Crei waved him down curtly.
“Look, Mr. Diore,” he said wearily, “you talk so loud and so long, you make my head hurt. I just think I’ll go find myself a new boss.” He turned to the door.
For an instant, a slightly dazed expression came into the executive’s eyes. Then, he shook his head furiously.
“Deloran!”
“Yes?” Crei left his hand on the doorknob as he turned.
“You’re finished here, of course.” A note of satisfaction crept into Diore’s voice to temper the anger. “And I don’t think any other firm will take a very charitable view of your action in leaving us in this manner, especially without notice.”
“Oh, I just gave notice.” Deloran smiled gently. “Of course, you can fire me without notice, but it really won’t make much difference. In fact, I’m not particularly concerned with your future actions. You can do whatever you wish. You see, I’ve just decided what I’m going to do, and you’re quite powerless to do anything about that.”
He closed the door quietly and walked out, past the switchboard, to the stairs.
It was funny, he thought, that he should have allowed himself to get into this position. It was equally funny that he should have put up with it for so long. He could have come out of hiding long ago, and saved all those years of monotony.
Now, he realized that his whole flight had been a ridiculous blunder. He had maneuvered himself into a pattern much more restricting than anything his own civilization could have dreamed of. In fact, he very much doubted that anything they could offer at Aldebaran Base could equal the frustrations that the average citizen of this primitive culture accepted as a matter of normal routine.
He turned away from the gate and looked down the short street ahead of him. He looked at the drab, stone buildings, at the crowded pavement, then up at the clear sky. Finally, he shrugged and walked mechanically along the street.
At last, he reached the city park. Slowly, he walked through the gate, past the little formal garden, and out to the edge of a wide, grassy plot. On holidays, it was a playground, crowded with people who relaxed from their usual routine. Today, it was deserted. Today was a working day.
He looked across the wide expanse of grass to the mysterious depths of the trees on the other side. It was a bright cloudless day, and the dark shadows looked cool and inviting.
Then, he dropped his mental shield completely for the first time in twelve years. He aligned his thoughts on a commonly used band, and put all his energy behind the burst of thought.
“This is Delor Barcha, of Kleira,” he thought intensely. “Come and get me. Please, come and get me!”
THE END
The Players
A Playboy is someone with power, too much time on his hands, and too little sense of a goal worth achieving. And if the Playboy happens to belong to a highly advanced culture . . .
Through the narrow streets leading to the great plaza of Karth, swarmed a colorful crowd—buyers, idlers, herdsmen, artisans, traders. From all directions they came, some to gather around the fountain, some to explore the wineshops, many to examine the wares, or to buy from the merchants whose booths and tents hid the cobblestones.
A caravan wound its way through a gate and stopped, the weary beasts standing patiently as the traders sought vacant space where they might open business. From another gate, a herdsman guided his living wares through the crowd, his working animals snapping at the heels of the flock, keeping it together and in motion.
Musa, trader of Karth, sat cross-legged before his shop, watching the scene with quiet amusement Business was good in the city, and his was pleasingly above the average. Western caravans had come in, exchanging their goods for those eastern wares he had acquired. Buyers from the city and from the surrounding hills had come to him, to exchange their coin for his goods. He glanced back into the booth, satisfied with what he saw, then resumed his casual watch of the plaza. No one seemed interested in him.
There were customers in plenty. Men stopped, critically examined the contents of the displays, then moved on, or stayed to bargain. One of these paused before Musa, his eyes dwelling on the merchant rather than on his wares.
The shopper was a man of medium height. His rather slender, finely featured face belied the apparent heaviness of his body, though his appearance was not actually abnormal. Rather, he gave the impression of being a man of powerful physique and ascetic habits. His dress was that of a herdsman, or possibly of an owner of herds from the northern Galankar.
Musa arose, to face him.
“Some sleeping rugs, perhaps? Or a finely worked bronze jar from the East?”
The stranger nodded. “Possibly. But I would like to look a while if I may.”
Musa stepped aside, waving a hand. “You are more than welcome, friend,” he assented. “Perhaps some of my poor goods may strike your fancy.”
“Thank you.” The stranger moved inside.
Musa stood at the entrance, watching him. As the man stepped from place to place, Musa noted that he seemed to radiate a certain confidence. There was a definite aura of power and ability. This man, the trader decided, was no ordinary herdsman. He commanded more than sheep.
“You own herds to the North?” he asked.
The stranger turned, smiling. “Lanko is my name,” he said. “Yes, I come from the North.” He swept a hand to indicate the merchandise on display, and directed a question-
ing gaze at the merchant. “It seems strange that your goods are all of the East. I see little of the West in all your shop.”
Normally, Musa kept his own council, assuming that his affairs were not public property, but his alone. There was something about this man, Lanko, however, which influenced him to break his usual reticence.
“I plan a trading trip to the Eastern Sea,” he confided. “Of course, to carry eastern goods again to the East would be a waste of time, so I am reserving my western goods for the caravan and clearing out the things of the East.”
Lanko nodded. “I see.” He pointed to a small case of finely worked jewelry. “What would be the price of those earrings?”
Musa reached into the case, taking out a cunningly worked pair of shell and gold trinkets.
“These are from Norlar, a type of jewelry we rarely see here,” he said. “For these, I must ask twenty balata.”
Lanko whistled softly. “No wonder you would make a trip East. I wager there is profit in those.” He pointed. “What of the sword up there?”
Musa laughed. “You hesitate at twenty balata, then you point out that?”
He crossed the tent, taking the sword from the wall. Drawing it from its scabbard, he pointed to the unusually long, slender blade.
“This comes from Norlar, too. But the smith who made it is still farther to the east, beyond the Great Sea.” He gripped the blade, flexing it. “Look you,” he commanded, “how this blade has life. Here is none of your soft bronze or rough iron from the northern hills. Here is a living metal that will sever a hair, yet not shatter on the hardest helm.”
Lanko showed interest. “You say this sword was made beyond the Great Sea? How, then, came it to Norlar and thence here?”
Musa shook his head. “I am not sure,” he confessed. “It is rumored that the priests of the sea god, Kondaro, by praying to their deity, are guided across the sea to lands unknown.”
“Taking traders with them?”
“So I have been told.”
“And you plan to journey to Norlar to verify this rumor, and perhaps to make a sea voyage?”
&n
bsp; Musa stroked his beard, wondering if this man could actually read thoughts.
“Yes,” he admitted, “I had that in mind.”
“I see.” Lanko reached for the sword. As Musa handed it to him,-he extended it toward the rear of the booth, whipping it in an intricate saber drill. Musa watched, puzzled. An experienced swordsman himself he had thought he knew all of the sword arts. The sword flexed, singing as it cut through the air.
“Merchant, I like this sword. What would its price be?”
Musa was disappointed. Here was strange bargaining. People just didn’t walk in and announce their desire for definite articles. They feigned indifference. They picked over the wares casually, disparagingly. They looked at many items, asking prices. They bargained a little, perhaps, to test the merchant. They made comments about robbery, and about the things they had seen in other merchants’ booths which were so much better and so much cheaper.
Slowly, and with the greatest reluctance, did the normal shopper approach the object he coveted.
Then, here was this man.
“Well,” Musa told himself, “make the most of it.” He shrugged.
“Nine hundred balata,” he stated definitely, matching the frank directness of this unusual shopper, and incidentally doubling his price.
Lanko was examining the hilt of the sword. He snapped a fingernail against its blade. There was a musical ping—
“You must like this bit of metal far better than I,” he commented without looking up. “I only like it two hundred balata worth.”
Musa felt relief at this return to familiar procedure. He held up his hands in a horrified gesture.
“Two hundred!” he cried. “Why, that is for the craftsman’s apprentices. There is yet the master smith, and those who bring the weapon to you. No, friend, if you want this prince of swords, you must expect to pay for it. One does not—” He paused. Lanko was sheathing the weapon, his whole bearing expressing unwilling relinquishment.
Musa slowed his speech. “Still,” he said softly, “I am closing out my eastern stock, after all. Suppose we make it eight hundred fifty?”
“Did you say two hundred fifty?” Lanko held the sheathed sword up, turning to the light to inspect the leather work.
The bargaining went on. Outside, the crowds in the street thinned, as the populace started for their evening meals. The sword was inspected and re-inspected. It slid out of its sheath and back again. Finally, Musa sighed.
“Well, all right. Make it five hundred, and I’ll go to dinner with you.” He shook his head in a nearly perfect imitation of despair. “May the wineshop do better than I did.”
“Housewife, this is Watchdog. Over.”
The man at the workbench looked around. Then, he laid his tools aside, and picked up a small microphone.
“This is Housewife,” he announced.
“Coming in.”
The worker clipped the microphone to his jacket, and crossed the room to a small panel. He threw a switch, looked briefly at a viewscreen, then snapped another switch.
“Screen’s down,” he reported. “Come on in, Lanko.”
An opening appeared in the wall, to show a fleeting view of a bleak landscape. Bare rocks jutted from the ice, kept clear of snow by the shrieking wind. Extreme cold crept into the room, then a man swept in and the wall resumed its solidity behind him.
He stood for an instant, glancing around, then shrugged off a light robe and started shedding equipment.
“Hi, Pal,” he was greeted. “How are things down Karth way?”
“Nothing exceptional.” Lanko shrugged. “This area’s getting so peaceful it’s monotonous. He unsnapped his accumulator and crossed to the power generator.
“No wars, or rumors of wars,” he continued. “The town’s getting moral—very moral, and it’s developing into a major center of commerce in the process.” He kicked off his sandals, wriggled out of the baggy native trousers, and tossed his shirt on top of them.
“No more shakedowns. Tax system’s working the way it was originally intended to, and the merchants are flocking in.”
He walked toward the wall, flicking a hand out. An opening appeared, and he ducked through it.
“Be with you in a minute, Banasel,” he called over his shoulder. “Like to get cleaned up.”
Banasel nodded and went back to the workbench. He picked up a small part, examined it, touched it gently a few times with a soft brush, and replaced it in the device he was working on.
He tightened it into place, and was checking another component when a slight shuffle announced his companion’s return.
“Oh, yes,” said Lanko. “Met your old pal, Musa. He’s doing right well for himself.”
Banasel swung around. “Haven’t seen him since we joined the Corps. What’s he doing?”
“Trading.” Lanko opened a locker, glancing critically at the clothing within. “He set up shop with the load of goods we gave him long ago, and did some pretty shrewd merchandising. Now, he’s planning a trip over the Eastern Sea. He hinted at a rumor of a civilization out past Norlar.”
“Nothing out there for several thousand kilos,” growled Banasel, “except for a few little islands.” He jerked a thumb toward the workbench. “I can’t show you right now, because the scanner’s down for cleaning, but there isn’t even an island for the first couple thousand K’s. Currents are all wrong, too. No one could cross without navigational equipment.”
“I know,” Lanko assured him. “We haven’t checked over that way for a long time, but I still remember. I didn’t put it exactly that way, of course, but I did ask Musa how he planned to get over the Eastern. And, I got an answer.” He paused as he gathered up the garments he had discarded.
“It seems there’s a new priesthood at Norlar, who’ve got something,” he continued. “It’s all wrapped up in religious symbology, and they don’t let any details get out, but they are guiding ships out to sea, and they’re bringing them back again, loaded with goods that never originated in the Galankar, or in any place accessible to the Galankar.” He hung up the last article of clothing and turned, a sheathed sword in his hand.
“Musa sold me this,” he said, extending the hilt toward Banasel. “I never saw anything like It on this planet. Did you?”
Banasel accepted the weapon, drawing it from its scabbard. He examined the handwork on the hilt, then snapped a fingernail against the blade. As he listened to the musical ping, the technician looked at the weapon with more interest. Gently, he flexed it, watching for signs of strain. Lanko grinned at him.
“Go ahead,” he invited, “get rough with it. That’s a sword you’re holding, Chum, not one of those bronze skull busters.”
Banasel extended the sword, whipping it violently. The blade bent, then straightened, and bent again, as it slashed through the air.
“Well,” he murmured. “Something new.”
He put the sword on the workbench and took an instrument from a cabinet. For a few minutes, he busied himself taking readings and tapping out data on his computer. He sat back, looking at the sword curiously. At last, he glanced at the computer, then put the test instrument he had been using back in the cabinet, taking another to replace it. After taking more readings, he looked at the computer, then shook his head, turning.to Lanko.
“This,” he said slowly, “is excellent steel. Of course, it could be an accidental alloy, but I wouldn’t think anyone on this planet could have developed the technology to get it just so.” He held the sword away from him, looking at it closely. “Assuming an accidental alloy, an accident in getting precisely the right degree of heat before quenching, and someone who ground and polished with such care as to leave the temper undisturbed, while getting this finish—Oh, it’s possible, all right. But ’tain’t likely. Musa told you this came from overseas?”
“To the best of his knowledge. He got it from a trader who claimed to have been on a voyage across the Eastern Sea.”
Banasel leaned back, clasping his hands behind
his head. “You must have had quite a talk with Musa. Did he remember you?”
Lanko shook his head. “Don’t be foolish,” he grunted. “You and I were blotted out of his memory, remember? So are quite a few of the things that happened around Atakar, way back when. He’s got a complete past, of course, but we’re not part of it.
“No, he had a booth in the Karth market. I came through, just looking things over, and recognized him. So, I picked an acquaintance. Beat him down to about half the asking price for this sword, still leaving him a whopping profit. He went to dinner with me, still bewailing the rooking I’d given him. Told you, he’s a trader. We had quite a talk, certainly. But we were strangers.”
“Yeah.” Banasel looked off into space. “Seems funny. You and I were born on this planet. We were brought up here, and a lot of people once knew us. But they’ve all forgotten, and we don’t belong any more. I’m beginning to see what they mean by the lonely life of a guardsman.
He was silent for a time, then looked at his companion.
“Do you think these priests at Norlar might be in our line of business?”
“Could be,” nodded Lanko. “There’s a lot of Seafaring out of Konassa, and there are several other busy seaports we know of. But no one in any of them ever heard of navigation out of sight of land, let alone trying it. There’s nothing but pilotage, and even that’s pretty sketchy. And, there’s this thing.” He crossed to the workbench, picked up the sword, and stroked its blade.
“Normally,” he mused, “technical knowledge gets around. Part of it’s developed here, part there. Then someone comes along and puts it together. And someone else adds to it. And so on.
“Then, there are other times, when there’s an abnormal source, or where there are unusual conditions, and knowledge is very closely guarded. This might be one of those cases, and those priests might be fronting for someone very much in our line of business.” He broke off.
“Any maedli hot?”
“Sure.” Banasel picked a pot from the heater and poured two cups.
“Think we should set up a base near Norlar and have a look?”
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 19