by Zach Hughes
"For defense against pirates," he'd said, remembering as he said it that the Zede "businessmen" had said much the same thing.
"We blasted the last pirates off the Hogg Moons,"Jeanny had said. "Why don't you grow up, Audrey Patricia?"
"Don't call me Audrey Patricia," he'd said, before thanking her for her help.
From Jeanny's office he'd gone directly to UPCentral Control. Although space travel was safe,and ships dependable, anything mechanical or electronic or subatomic would break down sooner or later, usually at the most inopportune time. UPCentral Control's vast array of computers kept trackof every registered ship in UP space, and everyregistered shipalways left a flight plan on file withControl, or one of its many outposts scatteredthroughout populated space. It took two days toget a list of twenty-two ships which had filed flightplans including a stop at Taratwo in the past fiveyears. That was not a lot of traffic, but all theships had returned safely to home ports.
So, he'd gone over all of it in his mind. He'dreread the file on Taratwo. It was time to do something. He punched orders into the computer.
"OK, old man, let's put it in B for boogie," hesaid, pushing a button. He felt that eerie momentof disorientation which goes with the territory whenpower is discharged in the core of a blink generator and a ship ceases to exist at one point in spaceto exist with an almost immeasurable time lapse at another point.
Upsilon Ophiuchus was a small, yellowish sun glowing weakly at less than one old astronomical unit away from a small, almost barren ball shrouded in volcanic smoke and ash. The sun was toosmall, too weak, to ever make that sad, barrenplanet rich and pleasant like the more desirableUP worlds. In fact, when the planet's inner firescooled a bit over the millennia she'd go cold. Mostof her atmosphere would have been bled off intospace by that time, and what remained would be frozen in small caps of polar ice. He, of course, would not be around to see that happen, nor wouldany of the people alive on Taratwo.
He checked the approach instructions for Taratwoand activated the voice communicator. This was a measure of the backwardness of the planet, to have to use audio. At up-to-date facilities, approach was handled efficiently and silently by intercomputer communication.
"Taratwo Space Control, Taratwo Space Control," he sang out, feeling good to be needed, "thisis the free traderSkimmer. Come in."
"Signal Two,Skimmer," said a voice with anodd and rather interesting accent. For a momenthis old interest in words and their developmentand usage was back with him, but he could notidentify the accent. He gave the computer instructions to send on the proper wavelength and punchedup a cup of coffee with cream and sugar as heheard the only slightly mechanical-sounding voiceof the computer send the ship's ID, hull number,registration, licenses, all the numbers and lettersassigned by a host of red-tape artists on a thousand planets.
"Signal Two received," said Taratwo Space Control. "Hold one."
Pat waited. He had the coffee cooled just rightwhen the accented voice came again."Skimmer,you are number one for Space Port Old Dublin.Landing instructions follow on channel eleven."
He switched channels, grinning. He was not surprised to be number one for the pad.Skimmer'ssensors showed nothing else in near space other than Taratwo's sad excuse for a moon.
Flux thrusters grumbled to breakSkimmer's fallinto atmosphere. There was a high layer of ash,then a band of relatively clear air, high, before theship plunged into the lower smoke and ash. Below,the lights of Old Dublin, Taratwo's principal city,were lit, but they could not dispel the appearanceof gloom over the planet, the result of the sun'sfiltered half-light.
"You see, old man, you're in better conditionthan you thought," Pat said, asSkimmer settledonto her assigned pad without so much as a clank.
The ship was alone, squarely squat, sturdy. Thepad was at the northern end of the Old DublinSpace Port. Pat had activated the armaments console, sat with the fire director's helmet pushedback loosely on his head. All he had to do was jamthe helmet in place and think and the ports wouldfly open to reveal Skimmer's teeth, instantly readyto defend the ship against unpleasant surprises.
A vehicle separated from a line of one-story buildings at a distance of approximately a mile andcame toward the ship. Pat kept power in the generator and in the flux drive, for he was, by nature,a cautious man. The oncoming vehicle did notseem to be armed. There was only one occupant,male, in uniform. Pat activated the sound pickupson the hull as the vehicle drew near and stoppedat a respectful distance.
"Captain Audrey Patricia Howe?" The voice wasaccented like the voice of the Taratwo controller.
"Don't call me—" Pat began automatically, thensighed. "Yes," he said.
"I am Captain John Hook, of Taratwo Customs,at your service, sir. Will you please open your hatches for inspection."
Pat kept the ship on alert as he flipped switches.The main entry hatch hissed open, began to exchange clean ship's air for the murky air of theplanet. He met the customs official in the lock,handed over the ship's papers.
"I think we need not stand too much on theformalities, Captain Howe," the white-haired, distinguished-looking man said with a smile. "Isee you carry Class AAA drugs. That's good. There's always a ready market for such cargo. If I may presume, I would suggest that you trade for emeralds. There's been a new strike, and the price is down, the gems of first quality."
It was quite unlike a local customs official togive a clue to a favorable trade. "Thank you," Patsaid. "I have the cargo manifest on the bridge. Ican offer you a cup of coffee while you're looking itover."
"Good, if it's a UP brand," Hook said. "I am especially fond of a certain brand from the planetZede II. It is called Zede's Pride."
Pat took a quick, closer look at the customsman. He had not expected contact so quickly, anddefinitely not with a Taratwo official.
"Yes," he said. "I have that brand. It's said thatthe flavor comes from the peculiar quality of thelight of a Zede II sunset, which glows like moltencopper."
Hook completed the preset identification formula. "Especially at the winter solstice," he said. "Welcome to Taratwo, Captain Howe."
"Are you the passenger?" Pat asked, thinkingthat if he was, he might lift off immediately. He could, after all, trade the drugs, if not as favorablyas on an out-planet, on the way home. There wassomething about the aura of semigloom, whichdeepened as the day died, that made him uneasy.
"No, I am not," Hook said. "Control has sent outword that a free trader has arrived. You can complete your business tomorrow. The passenger willboard sometime before sunrise on the day after tomorrow."
Pat felt a little shiver of doubt. If the passengerwas legal, why would he board in the dead ofnight?
"I'd like the passenger to be aboard tomorrowmorning, just in case I finish my trading early."
"Your passenger will board no later than onehour before sunrise on the day after tomorrow,"Hook said, and there was a finality in his voice. He smiled again, showing that Taratwo's dentists werea bit behind the times. "You will be number oneat the customs shed at one hour after sunrise tomorrow. I will be there. Inspection of your tradegoods will be our only point of discussion."
"Got you," Pat said, not liking it, not liking it atall.
Darkness came to Taratwo with a rush. Thesmoky sky lowered. Just after the stygian darkclosed around the ship a tremor rippled the flexible metal grid of the landing pad, causingSkimmer'sgyros to whine in adjustment.
Pat set all detectors. The ship was an armedcamp. Instruments would detect the approach ofwhatever passed for a mouse on Taratwo, or thefocusing of any sort of beam on the ship.
For his dinner, he selected Tigian dragon's-tailsteak and Xanthos salad. He wasn't sleepy.Skimmer operated on Xanthos standard time, which did notmatch Taratwo's time, and he didn't feel like taking a sleeping pill.
As he ate, he checked the ship's film catalog.He'd added several new titles in preparation forthe trip, and he'd seen all of them at least once,with the exception of a film whi
ch had been givento him on Zede II by his "businessmen" charterers, with a hearty recommendation to enjoy. Hehadn't run it because, as a rule, he found Zedeianfilms to be heavy, often deep in psychological complications which would not have puzzled a XanthosU. freshman, always gloomy in outlook.
When he punched up the film he was pleasantly surprised. The theme was very Zedeian, but it had interest, if only to show that the Zedeians had aslightly antique view of the role of women insociety.
There was nothing wrong with the technical aspects of Zede filmmaking. Zedeians were, after all,the Confederation's finest technicians. The holographic image was almost realistic enough to stepinto. The acting was surprisingly good. The star ofthe film was a delicately built redhead with aknockout face and an extraordinary body. The story told of a young woman in love with one man. Shewas being forced by custom and her parents tomarry another. It was a period piece, set in thatdistant past before the Zedeian war, and as thestory progressed Pat began to see and hear references to Zede pride and Zede military strength.The male actors strutted, spoke with an arrogancewhich was familiar, because, although they weresupposed to be historical characters, their thoughtpatterns were the same as those of the Zedeians Pat had known.
He hadn't paid much attention to the credits inthe beginning. When the film ended he started it again and looked for the name of the redheadedactress. She was listed as Corinne Tower. Whenshe first appeared she was sweeping down a wide,curving flight of stairs, dressed in formal gown,hair piled atop her head. Pat froze motion, left theminiature woman frozen in space, so lifelike, somuch woman. Finally, with a sigh, he turned offthe projector.
He went to sleep with ease and dreamed of theredheaded woman. It was a very exciting dream.
TWO
A light, sooty rain delayed dawn. Pat lifted theSkimmeron her flux thrusters to land her directlyin front of the customs building. Other landingpads were already occupied by pitted and rustedwork vessels, long in service, and two new atmospace vehicles. The names of the ships were, ofcourse, in English. It was a one-language galaxy,unless one happened to stumble into an obscurefield of esoteric knowledge, the study of extinct languages which had survived in fragments, or ofthat one alien language which man had encounteredin a book which was all that remained of a fascinating civilization out among the colliding galaxies in Cygnus.
While he waited for Captain John Hook and hismen to boardSkimmer to check her cargo, Patsavored the names of the local ships:Canny Belle,Mary's Darlin', Jay-Ann.The two newer ships apparently belonged to the same company, since the names showed little imagination:Capcor I andCapcor II.
From appearances, some form of free enterpriseexisted on Taratwo. Pat guessed correctly that the rusted, battered older ships belonged to independent prospectors or miners.
"You are cleared, Captain," John Hook said, handing over papers to be signed in triplicate. "I have heard that Capcor has eyes for your cargo. They'll go high."
"That's what I like," Pat said. "Thank you again."
He rode the cart which moved his cargo insidethe customs shed. There were thieves in customsin more prosperous and civilized places than OldDublin.
His was the only merchandise inside the hugeshed. The customs men helped him offload thecases from the cart. About two dozen men surrounded the platform on which his goods had beenplaced. He had had the computer print out copiesof his cargo manifest. He handed them out, smiling, saying, "Morning, gentlemen."
A tall, well-dressed man with a well-styled headof heavy black hair pushed forward. "Captain,there's no need for that. I am prepared to makeyou the highest offer. I will take your entire cargo."
Well, why not? He was after the highest price.He owned no obligation to the less well-dressedtraders who surrounded the platform. But whenhe looked into the tall man's eyes he saw coldness.The thin lips were pressed together. The face wasset in an imperious sneer as the tall man glanced atthe others.
Sometimes you just take an instant dislike for aman. It wasn't logical. It wasn't even good business. It made sense to think that the biggest firm,the firm with the new ships outside, would be in aposition to pay the highest price.
Pat didn't always operate on logic.
"You wanta take all the fun out of it?" he asked,grinning disarmingly at the tall, stern-faced manwho represented Capcor, whatever that was.
"Are you here for fun or for a profit?" the manasked.
Pat didn't answer immediately. He noted thatthe clothing worn by the tall man was a sort ofcompany uniform. Below the Capcor name andlogo on the left breast pocket was the name T.O'Shields. "These boonie rats can't match my offer,"O'Shields said coldly. "Excuse me, Mr. O'Shields," said a grizzled, thinboonie rat. "If you don't mind, I flew all night tobe first in
line. I have the first number." The oldman sounded servile, but there was a steady gleamin his eyes as he
looked at O'Shields. "Murphy, the man isn't stupid," O'Shields said."Your emeralds are low-grade. You can't matchCapcor quality."
"Well, Mr. O'Shields," Murphy said, "I did stayup all night, so if you'll excuse me I'll let the mantake a look at my stones anyhow."
Pat turned to John Hook, who was standing toone side. "Is that the usual procedure here?" "That's it," Hook said. "First come, first bid. Then, with all bids in, the seller has the right tocall for a second round of bidding if he's notsatisfied."
"Murphy," O'Shields snarled, "you'll save us allvaluable time if you'll just take your pebbles over to the exchange." "And sell at Capcor prices," Murphy said.
"I think we'll observe the usual procedure, gentlemen," Pat said. Hook moved forward. "All right. Line up by number. Stay behind the line to give each man hisright of private offer."
The men moved back away from the platform.O'Shields was far back in the line, glowering, asMurphy grinned at Pat and hopped with sprynessup onto the platform. He looked at the cargo manifest, held in one hand. In the other hand he carried a battered leather bag.
"Well, Mr. Murphy?" Pat asked, as Murphy placedthe bag on the table in front of him. "Capcor will offer you more in number andweight," Murphy said, speaking softly so that thewaiting men
would not hear. "Well, we'll just have to see about that," Patsaid. "I hear emeralds are coming back in style in the UP," Murphy said. "Well, the diamond is still the king of jewels," Pat said. Murphy poured a glittering, rattling mass of uncut gemstones onto the padded table top.
"That's my lot," Murphy said. "Right at twothousand carats. All good quality."
Pat lost himself for a moment in the blood fire ofa ruby, shifted his attention to an oblong greenbeauty of an emerald, at least one hundred caratscuttable to a stylish stone of perhaps eighty caratswith chips for change.
"These are good-looking stones," he said.
"Cap," Murphy said, "I know the competition.I've got my eye on one case of happy pills. I'll tell you frankly that I can buy more on this forsakenplanet with them than with all these." He swepthis hand over the table to indicate the stones,misjudged, knocked a dozen stones of various sizesoff onto the floor, said a curse word under hisbreath, bent, creakingly, to begin to pick up thestones. In his haste, he brushed a few of themunder the table.
Pat, feeling sorry For the man's old, frail bones,knelt and began to help. Murphy crawled partwayunder the table, looked at Pat squintingly. "Soundpickups in the ceiling," he said, throwing a glanceupward. "Table'll block 'em. I'll make this quick. Ican't show you the stone I know you'll want most. You'll have to take my word for it. I'll deliver it toyou aboard your ship tonight."
Pat reached for a stone under the table, got his head under. It wasn't beyond logic, on a totalitarian planet, for there to be listening devices in theceiling. "I don't like the sound of that," he said.
"It will be my offense, not yours."
Murphy picked up two stones, dropped one nervously. "I want off this planet, Captain. I've got a diamond, adiamond, mind you. Biggest one sincethe Capella Glory. Half of it is yours. I don't wantyour dr
ugs. Let Capcor have every damned one ofthem. They'll pay you the most. I just want passage out. I'll come to your ship in the dark, after midnight. You get half the diamond. I get a rideout."
"Murphy," T. O'Shields yelled, from his placetoward the back of the line, "pick up your rocksand quit wasting our time."
"Why do you want off this planet so badly?" Pat asked, with the little warning bells going off in hishead.
"I got just a few years left. I got me a diamondbig enough so's I can enjoy 'em on a civilizedplanet. You get rich, too." He gathered up the laststone. "Deal?"
Pat held three emeralds in his hand. The manhad a king's ransom in gemstones if he had beenon a civilized planet. He was offering them for onecase of stress relievers.
"Them things are a dime a dozen on Taratwo,"Murphy said, as if reading his mind. "It's the diamond, man. The diamond. It's enough for both ofus."
"What would the local law have to say aboutyou visiting me onboard ship?" Pat asked.
"It's legal," Murphy said. "They won't care about me leaving, either. Come and go as you please, butthe trouble is there might not be another ship forfive years."
"Mr. Murphy, I'll keep an open mind," Pat said,thinking of a huge diamond. He didn't know justhow big the Capella Glory had been, but he remembered reading about it, and it was bigger thanany other quality diamond found to date on any planet.
Pat wrote down Murphy's offer. The old mangathered his stones and shuffled away. The othertraders
filed past one by one, displaying their gems,not many of them as fine as Murphy's had been.The traders bartered without hope, fully expectinghim to hand over all his cargo to the smirking O'Shields.
He was tempted to take O'Shields's offer. TheCapcor man opened a fancy velvet-lined case builtto carry uncut gems, displaying them to their bestadvantage. He did, indeed, have some beauties.Pat looked at tray after tray of uncut emeralds andrubies, and there were four small diamonds, allunder one carat.
"Not too many diamonds on Tara?" he asked.Murphy's words were haunting him. Bigger thanthe Capella Glory? Pat's brain dredged back intomemory. The Capella Glory was still uncut. It was on display at the Museum of Galactic Natural History on Old Earth, which was a museum planet initself, what with all the archaeological digs andunderwater searches which went on year after year,century after century, as man tried, mostly in vain,to search for his roots.