Jewels of the Dragon

by Allen Wold

  An archway across from the entrance was well lit. Rikard went to it. But instead of a registration screen, there was a man sitting behind a counter.

  He had asked for someplace cheap. On almost every other world that Rikard knew, personal service was available only at the most expensive establishments. Either this hostel would cost far more than he wanted to spend, or else there weren't enough cybernetics to go around. Considering what he had seen of the city so far, he guessed the latter.

  Rikard had only once before been on a world like that, when he'd spent a year exploiting on Gorshom with Damia Kalentis. Gorshom had had no spaceport, no interplanetary embassies, no starflight, no Federal contact. That was why Kalentis had taken her crew there. Their job had been to set all mat up and, in the process, reap as much profit as possible. Rikard had made enough to live on for the next nine years, get him through school, and bring him to Kohltri.

  But Kohltri was a well-established member of the Federation, even if it was way out on the edge. It should have had all the benefits of modern technology. The lack of such technology could not be due to accident or oversight.

  The clerk looked up from the flimsy he was reading. He smiled at Rikard and leaned his elbows on the counter.

  "I'd like something small and cheap," Rikard said.

  "That's all we have. Just in from the port?"

  "Yes."

  "Not the best world for a holiday." The clerk continued to lean on his elbows."

  "I agree. How much are your rooms?"

  The clerk told him. They were very cheap. Rikard had visions of a dark cubical with a mattress on a cot and no water. The clerk made no move to get him a key or direct him to a room.

  "Do I have to sign something?" Rikard asked.

  "Not at all. You in a hurry?"

  "No, it's just that I've had what you might call a long day. I'd like to get some rest."

  "Okay by me. Soon as I see some cash, you'll see a key."

  "You want currency? How about a credit account?"

  "Let's see your card."

  Rikard showed it to him. It was an ID only; the actual credit was keyed to the palm of his hand.

  "This won't do you much good in the city," the clerk said. "I can take credit, but a little farther out they don't have the equipment at all. As a matter of fact, only the port zone itself is prepared to handle credit. If you're just here for a visit, you'd be better off going back uptown and paying more."

  "It's not exactly a visit," Rikard said.

  "You running?"

  "Not as far as I know. But I don't think the Director is going to let me back up to the station."

  "Look, buddy, are you here just for fun, or do you want to hide out?"

  "Neither. I'm looking for my father."

  "So what does the Director have to do with that?"

  "It's a long story. Can I have a room?"

  "Sure. How long are you going to stay?"

  "I don't know."

  "For God's sake, how am I going to charge you if I don't know for how long? Where's your return ticket?"

  "I don't have one."

  "No ticket. Look, I don't understand. Couldn't you afford one?"

  "I wasn't given one."

  "There seems to be a failure to communicate here." The clerk sounded as flustered as Rikard felt. "You aren't given a ticket, you take one."

  "When the Director's agent puts you on an empty shuttle at the end of a jolter?"

  "Is that how it happened?" The clerk's opinion of Rikard seemed to go up. "Looks like you're here for a long stay. Do you want your room by the quarter, the tenth, or the year?"

  "How about five days to start with."

  "Okay by me. You want some cash?"

  "If I can't buy anything with credit, I'd better have cash, hadn't I?"

  "How much?"

  "Enough to buy meals for five days—make that ten, so I'll have a cushion."

  The clerk diddled with the counter. "Okay, slap her down."

  Rikard looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then got the idea and placed his palm on the counter. Instead of a special pad, the whole surface was a sensor. A display lit up and showed him his balance, and the clerk pushed over a pile of paper currency. It was old-fashioned stuff, elabo­rately printed on special paper as if to prevent counterfeiting.

  "Up the hall to the end," the clerk said as Rikard pocketed his money and ID. "To the right"—he held out a plastic card key—"and to the end again." Rikard took the key. The number 13 was printed on it. "Hope you don't mind," the clerk added.

  Rikard looked at him blankly.

  "The number thirteen," the clerk said, jabbing at the card key with a finger.

  "Why should I?" The clerk stared back. "Will I have any trouble getting the floater back to the port?" Rikard asked.

  "I'll let it out."

  "Thank you."

  Rikard left the desk and followed the clerk's directions to his room. It was not a dark cubicle after all, but a rather pleasant, if small, suite. There was one room which served as a sleeping and living room, another which contained kitchen facilities and a table and chairs. A third room held all the sanitary facilities.

  There was no comcon, only a videophone. There was no printer, no computer display, no keyboard, no entertainment channels.

  But the bed was comfortable. Rikard didn't bother to unpack, just undressed and got under the covers. His fatigue overwhelmed him, and he fell asleep at once.

  3

  Next morning Rikard bought a directory and a city map from the day clerk, a woman this time, and took them back to his room. The directory was slender, and even here the inhabitants seemed to have no name for the city other than Kohltri, the same as for the planet and the station.

  Many of the residents were listed with only an address and no phone connection. Others had a phone but no address.

  Some had neither, only a cross-reference to somebody or someplace else. There was no entry under Arin Braeth.

  He was surprised at how hollow he suddenly felt. He had been unconsciously hoping he wouldn't have to visit the city's records office, but it wasn't going to be that easy after all. He was afraid that all he would find there would be a record of his father's death and the location of a grave. That, at least, would bring him to the end of his search. Then he could worry about how to get off Kohltri and back home again.

  He unfolded the city map. It showed only major streets, with a more detailed inset for the port area. His hostel was located in the inset, as were the government offices. That left ninety-five percent of the city mapped in only the crudest fashion. He folded the map back up and tucked it in his pocket. He'd have to find a better one if he was going to stay here any length of time.

  He left his room and asked the day clerk where he could get breakfast. The woman gave him directions to a place two blocks away, on his route to the government buildings.

  There was plenty of traffic on the street now, both pedestrians and vehicles. After walking a couple of blocks, Rikard realized that there were two kinds of people here. There were those who were dressed more or less as he was, in a wide variety of clothing styles, as would be expected in any port city.

  The others, whom he took to be the citizens of Kohltri, wore clothes like those he had glimpsed last night. They seemed to be made of leather, or what looked like leather; boots of some kind, pants, shirt or jacket.

  And they wore guns.

  No one dressed in regular clothes was armed. That was to be expected; nobody on any civilized world carried a gun. Even the police carried only the nonlethal jolters. But all the locals, all those in leather clothes, were armed, men and women both. Rikard wondered-about the clerks at the hostel. They had not worn leather; was that because of their jobs? The counter behind which they had sat had prevented him from seeing if they had guns on.

  Rikard watched the faces of the leather-clad citizens. They were hard and wary. They looked at the other, more normally dressed people with unconscious conte
mpt. For their part these visitors looked timid and uncertain, a feeling Rikard was ashamed to discover he shared. He suppressed his feeling of being lost and put on a confident front.

  The government offices, like his hostel, surrounded a courtyard where every available nook had been filled with living plants. He found the records office easily enough. It, too, like the hostel, was staffed by people rather than by machines.

  "Excuse me," he said to the elderly woman who seemed to be in charge. She looked tired beyond enduring. She wasn't dressed in leather, though he was sure she was a permanent resident. "I would like to see the immigration records from twelve years ago." He showed her his Certificate of Authority.

  "Whatever you please," she said, not looking up from her work. "Room 4B, far wall." Rikard thanked her and went through the indicated door.

  In the middle of room 4B were a table and several chairs, where two people sat reading. The walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves were filled with documents—all on paper. He should have expected as much. He was going to have a long day.

  4

  He was aroused from the document he was studying by the dimming of the light overhead. The building was shutting down for the night. He'd been alone in room 4B since the middle of the afternoon, when he'd come back from lunch, and had lost track of the time.

  He straightened up, his back and shoulder muscles creaking. It had not been an encouraging day's work. It had taken him half the morning just to find the year he wanted. Then he had gone through a whole year's worth of reports before discovering that there was more than one shuttle terminal at the port. That was when he belatedly deciphered the addresses and found he'd been checking on the wrong one.

  By then it was midafternoon. When he'd come back from his late lunch, he spent another hour tracking down the iden­tity code of the various terminals and separating out the re­ports for each one for the day of his father's departure from the hostel up in the station, and for the two days following.

  So far he'd drawn a blank. He had, however, begun to get a feel for the system in use here—or rather lack of one— and had some ideas for another search since this one had failed to show any results. But he couldn't start it tonight. The building wanted him to go home.

  He put the document copies away and left room 4B. In spite of not getting any specific information, he had accom­plished a lot. He'd just never thought that he'd ever have to handle hard copy.

  As he reached the courtyard, he had an inspiration and went back inside. There was another set of shelves in room 4B that held credit listings.

  It took him another hour, working in the half-light, to find the right file, but when he did he had his answer. The very day his father had checked out of the station, he had registered a credit account down here in the city. It was still active, according to the last hard-copy record.

  Rikard sat back with a feeling of elation. He still had a long way to go, but with a copy of the account number he could get to work tomorrow and pull all the answers he wanted. If the documents hadn't been lost or misfiled.

  He felt uncomfortable about being in the deserted building so late on such a primitive planet as this. People who carried guns might not care about his Certificate of Authority. He hurried out, through the court, and into the street.

  It was evening. The lights had come on, such as they were here. There was a distinct change in the character of the traffic from what it had been that afternoon. There were fewer ve­hicles of any kind, and all the pedestrians wore leather. He was the only outsider on the street.

  He was some ten blocks from the hostel. He needed supper and thought about finding a restaurant. There were no dining facilities at the hostel. He remembered the place where he'd had breakfast, and decided to stop there on the way back, if it was still open.

  There were fewer and fewer people abroad, all of them wearing the leather style of this place, and none of them looked friendly. Nearly everybody he passed in the darkening night looked at him curiously, in a way that made him feel decidedly wary. If the restaurant wasn't open, he'd just have to forget his empty stomach and see if he could send out for something when he got back to the hostel.

  As he walked along a particularly dark stretch of street, he picked up an escort. Two figures fell into step with him, one on either side. It was too dark to make out their faces, but he knew by their leather clothes that they were citizens of Kohltri. The fact that he was taller than either didn't seem to bother them any.

  "Kind of lonely out, isn't it?" a woman's voice, strangely slurred, said on his right.

  "Maybe you need an escort home," a man's voice said on his left. He, too, sounded as if he were drunk or worse.

  "I hope I don't," Rikard said. He kept his own voice flat and even.

  "I think maybe you do," the woman said as they hurried on. "Even an old-timer can get lost."

  "This won't hurt," the man said. "We're just kind of low and you turned up to be the lucky donor. No trouble, no hassle, nobody hurt, just a mike or two and we'll be on our way, okay?"

  "What's a mike?" Rikard asked. The next streetlight seemed terribly far away. The faster he walked, the farther it seemed to get.

  "You trying to be funny?" the woman snapped.

  "Let's not get cute," the man said. Hands grabbed Rikard's arms and jostled him along. When they came into the light, his two escorts stopped suddenly.

  "What the hell," the man said. He was a boy, actually, maybe eighteen, the youngest person Rikard had yet seen in the city. His eyes were blurry, and he was obviously under the influence of some drug, perhaps the "mikes" he had asked for.

  "You picked us a real winner," the woman sneered. She was easily seventy, not quite into the prime of life, but looked badly worn.

  "What are you doing out on the street at night?" the boy asked. He shoved Rikard away from him disgustedly.

  "Damn offworlders," the woman muttered. She and her companion vanished into the darkness.

  Rikard stared after them for only a moment and then went on. He decided not to bother with the restaurant and hurried on to his hostel. He got there without any further incident. Inside the courtyard he found a bench where he could sit and catch his breath for a moment.

  One thing his search during the last two years had taught him was that the stories his father had told him during his childhood had all been true, more or less, not just made-up adventures as he had pretended. Rikard had loved to hear about his father's supposedly imaginary exploits before he and his mother had met. According to those stories—under­stated if anything, he now knew—his father would have had no problem at all surviving in this city. In fact, the way his father had told it, it would have been the citizens, not his father, who would have had trouble.

  But after his father's disappearance, Rikard had done everything he could to forget about all that. After all, he'd been brought up in a quiet, civilized world. His one stab at adventure, exploiting on Gorshom, had convinced him he wasn't the adventurous type. The other members of Kalentis's crew had been violent, uneducated, despising the locals. He'd stuck it out for as long as he could, but after a year, when he'd saved up as much as he wanted, he'd quit. He hadn't liked remembering his father's stories and thinking how much better he would have done on the same job.

  Of course, he'd been only sixteen at the time.

  And here he was, making comparisons again. When his breathing was more or less normal, he went to the registration desk.

  "Out kind of late, aren't you?" the night clerk asked, not unfriendly.

  "I lost track of time. Can I send out for something to eat?"

  "Sure. You don't want to go out on the street again. It'll cost you extra that way, though."

  "How much?"

  The clerk told him. It was more than he wanted to pay, but not enough to go hungry for.

  "Deal," he said, and slapped the counter to exchange the credit.

  The clerk laughed. "You learn fast. If you can manage to stay off the streets at ni
ght, you might even live long enough to put your knowledge to some use."

  "I wasn't aware it was going to be quite that rough out there."

  "Well, now you know. The only place that's worse man the streets at night is the Troishla anytime. Now last night, you came in so late nobody was out. That's how you got here in one piece. Whoever scheduled your shuttle either didn't know what they were doing—or else they did."

  "Probably the latter," Rikard said dryly, and went to his room to wait for his supper.

  5

  While he waited his thoughts kept returning to the two people who had demanded "mikes" from him—a drug of some kind, he guessed. Though he had not been in any real danger, his experience had been unexpected and had frightened him. But the thought that occupied him now was that he'd also felt a thrill of excitement.

  He had never been subjected to personal violence, or even the threat of violence before. Even on Gorshom he'd kept on good terms with the rest of the exploitation crew and hadn't gone looking for trouble among the locals. He didn't like the idea of fighting or violent competition, and found it hard to understand how his father could have willingly exposed himself to that kind of experience, sought it out, lived with it.

  And yet, here he was, with some of his father in him after all, if the thrill meant anything. Would he have fought if they'd tried to rob him? He didn't like to think that he might have another opportunity. Right now the thrill, if any, was dissipating. All he wanted—he told himself—was to find his father and then get back to civilization.

  Doing the latter would not be easy. Starships could be boarded only from an orbiting station. Even though he still had enough money for passage from Kohltri to Higgins and then the next nearest world, he'd have to get past Solvay at Kohltri Station. He wasn't sure he knew how to do that.