#
Mark Rykand was agitated. It had been two days since CanVisTal had promised to get him a quote on a copy of the Pastol Planetary Database. The trade representative, who had previously hovered over them like a mother hen with her newly hatched brood, had been strangely absent. Mark’s sense of anticipation built to the point where his mind was racing through the possible “what might have gone wrong” scenarios.
The problem was that he could not show any overt interest in the database. To the Ranta, he must appear unconcerned, even a little hostile to the idea of spending hard earned value on a scholar’s enthusiasms. Outwardly, his only interest must be the procurement of a sufficient sample of vasa juice to take home to Troje.
That process, too, was going slowly. It seemed that the average vasa berry only produced a few milliliters of fruit juice, and therefore, the process required a lot of berries.
One would think that the Ranta would have an efficient method for harvesting the berries, but one would be wrong. The Ranta ate the cabbage part of the setei plant and usually discarded the berries.
Mark sympathized. He had once been in Arizona, where he pulled the ripe fruit off a prickly pear cactus and popped it into his mouth. That was when he discovered the small spines that dot the skin of the red, bottle-shaped fruit. He made his discovery when one lodged in the roof of his mouth. His guide, recognizing what had happened, broke down laughing. Later he explained that it was necessary to remove the spines before consuming the succulent fruit.
Compounding the raw material problem was the fact that most setei plants had not yet reached the reproductive stage, and therefore, lacked vasa berries. It would be several months, CanVisTal explained, before they would reach the prime harvest season.
It seemed to Mark that even the gods were attempting to thwart him. Feigning great interest in the red liquid, he had consumed a sizeable quantity of the juice over the last several days. Vasa juice was tasty enough that it might actually be saleable on Earth; that is, if he were really interested in it as a product, and if there weren’t a year-long voyage between Pastol and home.
If they couldn’t sell it as a wine, they could certainly use it as a laxative. That, at least, was the effect it had on him. Despite this, Lisa’s discovery of the red berries had been a stroke of luck. Their cover story would have worn thin had they not found a product they could convincingly claim to be tasty.
His foul musings were interrupted when his wife stuck her head around the corner of the partitioned cubicle and said, “CanVisTal is here to see you.”
“About damned time,” he muttered, making sure to do so in Standard rather than trade talk. It would not have done to have the locals know how much exasperation these delays were causing him.
“Greetings, Markel Sinth,” CanVisTal boomed as Lisa led him into Mark’s humble office.
“What news of my vasa juice?”
“We nearly have the quantity of berries that we require, and will deliver them in three days.”
“Excellent. We are running late, so if you will have them delivered to my landing boat, we will take our departure as soon as they are onboard.”
“There is the matter of payment,” the trade representative replied.
“Yes, there is always that. We agreed that for this lot of juice, we will pay you two Vithian power units, one Gorthian reformer, and a dozen of those small zinc statues from my home world. I will have my pilot return to the ship to obtain payment.”
“That would be good,” CanVisTal replied. “There is also the matter of the planetary database.”
“Oh, yes,” Mark replied, feeling his throat constrict around the words from tension. “I had almost forgotten. How much?”
“Sixty four power units, twelve reformers, and six verifiers.”
Mark didn’t have to feign anger as he exploded in protest. The price was ridiculous, not the least because New Hope didn’t carry that many power units in its fake cargo hold. He told CanVisTal that, explaining that in their long voyage, they had stopped many places and exchanged what he sought for other commodities.
“Credit can be arranged,” the trade representative said.
Mark smiled inwardly, and the negotiations began. It took more than an hour, but eventually a price was agreed upon. They would provide the Ranta with a dozen power units in addition to the ones they owed for the vasa juice, plus all of the reformers they had aboard New Hope (not that he admitted as much to CanVisTal). For the remainder of the debt, he agreed to have what he owed aboard the first bulk carrier that came to Pastol for concentrated vasa juice. No power units, no vasa.
“Can the database be ready when you deliver the juice?” Mark asked.
“Most certainly,” CanVisTal said.
“Then I will send my pilot to orbit to pick up the goods.”
“We will have the juice at this facility three sunrises from now.”
Mark rose and stuck out his hand. “A custom of my people.” He showed the Rasta how to shake hands, finishing with, “This is the way we seal a bargain.”
CanVisTal turned to leave. Just as he did so, Mark’s communicator beeped. Surprised, he plucked it from his belt and pressed the message button.
“Mark?” Captain Harris’s voice issued from the hidden speaker.
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?” Harris asked. With a start, Mark realized that he was speaking Standard.
“Not quite. I have the Ranta trade representative with me.”
The captain was curt. “Get rid of him and call me back.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got trouble. Harris out.”
#
Pas-Tek lounged at his control station aboard Blood Oath and watched his mostly Gorthian crew go about their business. The Gorthians were competent spacers, having had interplanetary travel long before the Race discovered them on a small world circling a blue-white giant of a star. As a result, their bullet-shaped heads had eyes half the diameter of Pas-Tek’s own. Their vision extended to shorter wavelengths than did his, which made much of their artwork unintelligible to him. He just couldn’t see in the ultraviolet shades of color.
“Gate just coming into range now, Ship Commander,” his sensor operator announced.
“Very well. How are the timing circuits?” he asked into his intercom.
“Holding steady, Ship Commander,” his chief engineer’s unseen voice responded. “There should be no difficulty this jump.”
“Are you certain, Engineer? We don’t want to spread pieces of our ship all over the gate.”
“We are within safe parameters, Commander, if barely.”
“Very well. We can’t stay here.” In truth, of course, he would have preferred to stay in the Gasak system, the local Subsector capital. There was a large population of the Race here, diversions, comfortable quarters in which to lounge and breathe fresh air.
Instead they were about to jump through one of Gasak’s half dozen gates to the cul-de-sac system of Etnarii, with its boring farmers and endless talk about the weather and crops. He had never been to the backwater farm planet before, but he had talked with ship commanders who had. None of them spoke well of the place, although he reminded himself, it was still better than the last few planets he had visited.
“You may approach the gate, Sailing Master!”
Saton acknowledged the order from the astrogator’s station and began programming their approach. It was possible to transit a stargate at high speed, but such maneuvers were not done save for combat situations.
The gate was a small target in a big universe, and nothing would ruin a mission quite like colliding with one. In addition to destroying his ship, a collision would put the gate out of commission. In a big system like Gasak, that would not be a problem. The accident would be noted immediately and steps taken to repair or replace the gate. In a backwater like Etnarii, it would be a catastrophe. The place had so little traffic that it might be cycles before anyone knew that the link was down.
“We have passed the outer boundary,” the sailing master announced some time later.
“Are the timing circuits still holding?” Pas-Tek asked.
“Still holding,” the engineer replied from his station at the heart of Blood Oath.
“Very well. Sailing master, take us through.”
There passed a hundred heartbeats in which nothing happened. Then there was an indescribable sensation, followed by a change in the starlight falling on the ship’s hull.
“Jump successfully completed, Ship Commander.”
“Very well. Plot an orbit for Pastol. Chief Engineer, you may begin making preparations for the recalibration.”
Both crewmen acknowledged his order.
When Pas-Tek was convinced that everything was in order, he left his station to return to his cabin. This being a new system to him, he needed to study up on the local customs. Not that a member of the Race had anything to fear from trampling on local customs. In any dispute between subservient and master, the masters always won. However, knowing how a particular race of subservients thought made completing his mission easier.
Just three more planets and he could go home!
Chapter Thirty Four
Mark Rykand casually walked CanVisTal to the door of their assigned quarters and bade him goodbye. The trade representative halted for a moment and asked, “Is something wrong with our deal?”
“Wrong?” Mark asked.
“The call from your ship. It was not bad news, was it?”
“No. Captain Harris merely wanted to confirm that the cargo was ready for transfer as soon as the landing boat can get back to orbit. We should have your payment here tomorrow.”
“Then I must depart to see that our portion of the bargain is upheld,” the Ranta replied.
“That would be best. We are very behind schedule and I would like to depart as soon as the vasa juice is ready. The sooner we leave, the sooner we return to Troje, and the sooner we can get the bulk carrier here with the rest of your payment.”
“Then we both have a reason to hurry,” CanVisTal replied before turning on his heel and striding out the door at the disconcertingly fast pace that was the normal Ranta walking speed.
Mark’s hands trembled as he reached for his communicator and signaled the ship.
“Harris, here,” came the immediate reply.
“What’s the matter?” Mark asked. Both men were speaking Standard to make sure that their signal could not be intercepted and understood.
“A ship just popped out of the stargate.”
“What ship?”
“A Broan Avenger.”
Mark gulped. “Bad news” didn’t seem to cover it. The mission to obtain a planetary database had so far gone off flawlessly, and now this worst of all possible scenarios.
“Are you sure it’s an Avenger?”
“The emissions spectrum matches the recordings from the Battle of New Eden.”
It hadn’t been a battle, of course. More of a slaughter. When Magellan had first spotted Sar-Say’s ship, it had been under attack by a craft Sar-Say identified as a powerful warcraft. He had named the type “Avenger” and apparently, another was en route to Pastol. They were so damned close! Why couldn’t the Broa have waited another week to schedule a visit?
“Any idea whether they are looking for us?” Mark asked.
“They don’t appear to be in a hurry to get here. At the moment, they are just accelerating away from the stargate at a leisurely pace.”
“What are your orders, Captain?”
“For you and your people to get your asses on that boat and get back up here. We need to break orbit as soon as you are onboard.”
Mark’s stomach tightened into a tension knot. At the same time, his mind raced. To have come so far and then fall short was a crushing blow. Worse, it was not the first time this had happened to him.
“I think that would be a mistake, Captain.”
“How so, Mr. Rykand?” the tone of command was evident in Harris’s voice.
“We had this problem at Klys’kra’t. We were close to obtaining a planetary database then, and we let it slip through our fingers.”
“From what I heard, Lieutenant, it was the right decision,” Captain Harris replied.
“You’re probably right, sir. If Sar-Say had managed to get word to the locals, no telling what would have happened. We just couldn’t risk Earth that way. Still, I lie awake at night and wonder if we shouldn’t have brazened it out.”
“Is that your recommendation now?”
“Yes, sir. I think it is. This system has but one stargate. If we run for it, we have to run right past that inbound Avenger. What if the Broan captain orders us to halt for inspection? Or the Ranta might note that as soon as the Broan ship appeared, we abandoned our goods and ran. It would be better to stay and carry on as though nothing is wrong. After all, we aren’t supposed to know that a Broan warship is in this system.”
“You’re risking the lives of your ground party and of everyone on this ship, Mister.”
“Yes, sir, but I think the benefit is worth the risk. The Ranta claim they will have the database in three days. If the Avenger isn’t in a hurry to get here, it will make orbit in four or five days. That gives us a minimum of 24 hours to wrap things up, return to the ship, and be ready to space as soon as the Avenger assumes a parking orbit.
“They slip in and we slip out. That way, we won’t have to confront him en route and it won’t look to the Ranta like we’re running away.”
“What if something goes wrong, Lieutenant?”
“If something goes wrong, we fight our way to safety. Also, there is always Chicago to rectify any mess we make while trying to get clear.”
There came a long pause in which Captain Harris considered his recommendation. Finally, the voice that issued from the communicator bore a trace of resignation along with fatigue. “We’ll follow your recommendation. I hope you know what you are doing.”
“That makes two of us, Captain.”
#
Three days later, CanVisTal made good on his promise. Five large hundred-liter tanks were loaded aboard the landing boat with great ceremony, and the trade representative handed him a record cube containing the standard planetary database of Pastol.
“There, Master Trader, we have met our part of the bargain.”
“Thank you, CanVisTal. And we are ready with our portion,” he said, pointing to the alien goods piled up just beyond the landing boat airlock.
At the Ranta’s signal, his work crew began moving tanks into the boat, where they were strapped to the aft passenger benches. To clear the airlock door required them to bend nearly double. The Ranta then began loading the pile of power units, reformers, verifiers, and statuary onto a small self-propelled cart.
When the goods were safely inside a nearby warehouse, CanVisTal made a speech about how trade was good and how he hoped their vasa winemaking venture would add a store of value to both species. He managed to take half an hour to express a sentiment that should have gone a minute or two. To the four shivering members of the ground party lined up outside the boat, it seemed interminable.
Eventually the trade representative ran down and Mark responded with his own speech. He thanked CanVisTal for his courtesy and praised the business acumen and fairness of the Ranta.
Finally the speeches were done, CanVisTal shook the hands of each of them as Mark had taught him to do, and the t
ime came to enter the boat.
Mark was the last one to board. It was with a sigh that he pressed the control that sealed both airlock doors. He took off his heavy coat, stuffed it into a small storage compartment, then squirmed his way forward past shining containers of vasa juice. He slid onto the first bench where his wife was holding the lap belt ready for use.
He took one final look around. Seeing nothing amiss, he turned to Bernie Sampson, and in a loud official voice, said, “Pilot!”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Would you please get us the hell out of here?”
“Gladly, Lieutenant. Hang on to your butt because this is going to be one of the fastest transits you’ve ever seen.”
Seconds later, they were aloft and climbing for altitude. As soon as they cleared the continent, Sampson accelerated through the sound barrier — sound propagated more slowly on Pastol than Earth because of the lower temperature — and began to climb for the deep black.
#
Mark never realized how much he had missed New Hope until he was safely back onboard. No sooner had the hangar bay been pressurized than he was out through the airlock. The temperature seemed colder than Pastol. His breath made smoke as he breathed. He was followed by three excited members of the ground party.
It was good to be home again.
Captain Harris met them at the hatch. “Did you get it?”
Mark held up the glittering jewel of the record cube between thumb and forefinger.
“Is it authentic?”
“I don’t know yet. I doubt the Ranta would cheat us. They’re too anxious to sell us their juice. Still, you can never tell about aliens, so we’ll make some copies and have Suichi check it out.”
“You called, boss?” the ersatz Trojan scholar asked from behind Mark.
Mark turned to him and handed over the cube.
“The first thing I want is for you to make a dozen copies. After that, check to see if it’s really the database. Look for maps of the stargate system.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t look before you’ve made the copies. We’ve come too far to screw things up now.”
Takamatsu grinned. “Not to worry. I know how to do my job.”
Gibraltar Sun Page 26