"We have metal." Nenda had a sharp and lethal sample tucked away in his boot.
"Then apparently you don't know what to do with it."
Nenda knew exactly what he would like to do with it. He put that thought to one side. Claudius was pretending to an equal disdain for the occupants of the ship, but his eye movements betrayed a different level of interest.
"They belong to you, do they?" Claudius's main eye was staring at Kallik, J'merlia, and Atvar H'sial. "You know, these would also be of interest at Carnival. Especially the big and ugliest one. There's nothing like them there. Might they be available?"
"Certainly—but not until our other business is concluded."
Nenda had been providing pheromonal translation for Atvar H'sial's benefit. Now a message came wafting across to him containing overtones of both amusement and warning.
"Louis, I detect in your emanations an element of treachery. I approve—provided that it is directed at the correct individual."
"At, you know me better than that. I wouldn't dream of selling you out to old blubberguts here."
"Very wise. It leaves unanswered the question, to whom would you dream of selling me out?"
But Louis was moving on, beyond the range at which his augment could pick up and read the Cecropian's signals. Atvar H'sial had much more sensitive apparatus. When doors were open she could track and read Louis at fifty meters.
They passed into the next chamber, which normally served as the main cargo hold but which had been modified for special accommodation.
"Nothing here of value," Claudius was saying. "Why, I doubt if I could get more than a pittance for everything—"
He paused. He had caught sight of Archimedes, hanging by three great suckered tentacles from the ceiling. The Zardalu, head down, uttered a dreadful growl. Claudius was not to know that it was Archimedes's sincere attempt at a greeting in human universal.
"What is that?" Claudius was backing away.
"It's all right." Nenda walked forward, passing within a foot of the wide midnight-blue head with its fearsome maw. "This is only Archimedes. He's a Zardalu."
"Never heard of them before." The Polypheme did not move. "From the Orion Arm, I suppose. Is he dangerous?"
"Not at all. He might be, once he's full-grown."
Claudius edged his way past, keeping as close to the cargo bay wall and as far from Archimedes's dangling body as possible. "What's he do on board this ship?"
"Anythin' I tell him to. He's a sort of personal servant an' bodyguard. Anybody tries to cheat me, Archimedes takes care of it." Nenda passed through into another room. "Now this, I'm sure you'll want to see. This is the aft control cabin, where I expect you'll be working. It's an exact copy of the one forrard."
Claudius carefully closed the door to the cargo bay before he bobbed over to Nenda's side. "Let's get down to business. But I'll tell you now, if you want me to ship with a thumping freak like the one back there, the deal has to be something special."
"Maybe. Though from what I hear from Kallik—she's been monitoring signals coming up from Pleasureworld—times are hard for Chism navigators. Paid missions are way down. If you're not interested, plenty of others probably would be."
"Now then, Captain, did I say as I wasn't interested?" The Polypheme curled his form into the other control cabin chair. "You can't expect me to commit to something when I don't even know where you want to go. Some places are more attractive than others."
"We want to go to Marglot."
"That's it, then." Claudius was out of the chair in a single wriggling motion. "I'll say thank you, and good day. No one in his right mind goes to Marglot."
"Why not?"
"Because it sits right at the edge of the dead zone, that's why. Find someone else."
He was halfway to the door when Nenda said, "Fifty percent."
Claudius held his position, but the upper half of the flexible body turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, so that the great slaty eye faced Louis. "Fifty percent what?"
"Fifty percent of whatever our takings are on Marglot. That's twice what you normally ask, and five times what you normally get."
"And less than I'd need to go there." But Claudius remained where he was, coiled a little closer to the floor. "Haven't you heard about Marglot?"
"I've heard lots. What in particular?"
"Why, the fact that four ships from planets within thirty lightyears of here headed for Marglot, and not one came back."
"How were their navigators?"
"Lousy. Nothing near as good as I am."
"Well, then." Nenda swung his chair to face the control console. "I'll give you the right of final decision. If we make a Bose transition and you don't like the look of what you see, you take us out of there. I like to make money, but I'm not such a fool as to put my skin and my ship in danger to do it. What do you say? Half of anything we get, and if you're edgy and want to jump away, we do it with no questions asked."
The big eye lost its focus, and its smaller scanning companion slowed in its travel. Claudius stood as still and silent as a twisted spiral of green marble.
At last he nodded. "We put all this in writing, and post copies at Central Records on Pleasureworld. I've got an idea, you see. There's more than one Bose network approach to Marglot. The other ships, for a bet, took the shortest and easiest route. We'll wriggle around a bit for a back way in. How's your power supply for multiple Bose transitions?"
"Ample. Why?"
"It doesn't take longer in travel time, but my alternate route will burn up a whole lot more energy. Let me head over to my own ship and bring my stuff. Then we'll sign the deal. Oh, and there's one other thing."
"I can't give you terms any better than the ones I offered."
"It's not that. It's your friend out there." Claudius jerked five thumbs in unison toward the cargo bay door. "I know you say he's just a growing lad, but I can't do my best navigating when he's close by. My first suggestion is that you dump him in the freak show at Carnival. They'd take him in a hot minute. But if you won't go for that, at the very least you keep your Zardalu away from me—and the farther away, the better."
* * *
While the Have-It-All's communications center transmitted the written agreement to Central Records on Pleasureworld and awaited confirmation of its receipt and filing, Louis Nenda strolled back to join Atvar H'sial.
"Well?" The Cecropian's silent question drifted across to him.
"Nothing to it. All tied up and confirmed. Claudius will be our pilot to Marglot."
"As simple as that? No special agreements were necessary?"
"Not really. Except I had to offer him fifty percent of whatever we get."
"Fifty! That is quite outrageous. It is twice what each of us will receive."
"It is. But here's a question, At. What exactly do you expect to receive on Marglot? Not hope, now. Expect."
"I follow your logic." The Cecropian folded its proboscis into the pleated region on its chin. As the tube inflated, words in near-human speech emerged. "Anundra 'rsnt fe'wns'st."
"A hundred percent if he wants it? My thoughts exactly. Claudius may collect more than he bargains for. But you're gettin' better, At. I mean, better at speaking human. The sooner we're to Marglot and away again, the sooner you'll be able to have more lessons from Glenna Omar."
"Indeed." The Cecropian returned to her normal pheromonal speech. "Glenna was the best."
"I have to agree. The best." Nenda scratched thoughtfully at his crotch. "Not that I've had any recent chance for comparisons."
"You are considering language lessons?"
"Not really."
"Then what?"
"Nothing." Nenda was hurrying out of the chamber even before he spoke. He closed the door quickly. No point in getting Atvar H'sial excited over involuntary pheromonal signals.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A history lesson.
To Hans Rebka, sustained free-fall implied one of only two things. Either you wer
e in orbit around some body in open space, where you might remain with no feeling of a gravity field for an indefinite period; or you were dropping, pulled down steadily toward some center of force. In that case you most definitely could not fall for an indefinite period. The drop would end suddenly, unpleasantly, and probably fatally. And since you had started out on the surface of Iceworld, the chance that you were now orbiting some planet when all around you was nothing but total and stygian darkness seemed too slight to take seriously.
Hans saw nothing and felt no forces on his body. The only tangible thing in his universe was the suited figure of Ben Blesh. He clutched it tighter to him and was reassured by a protesting groan.
"Where are we. What's happening? Oh God, I think my arm and ribs are broken."
"Hang on, Ben. I'll get your suit's painkillers into you as soon as I can." Hans turned on the headlight of his own suit, but still he saw nothing. Either the headlight was not working, or he was in some place where light declined to travel. "You'll have to wait a bit longer until I can see what I'm doing."
"Lara. I thought I saw—or I dreamed I saw—Lara—"
"It was no dream. I'm sorry about Lara, but we can't do anything for her. Concentrate on yourself. How do you feel?"
"We must be in space. I'm in free-fall."
"Yes." But I don't think this particular free-fall is likely to last much longer. "I know you're hurting, but try to think objectively. Decide the parts of you that you think we will need to attend to first."
And where was Darya? Dropping invisible at their side, or spun away to some other dimension entirely? Had she already landed somewhere, crushed and shapeless, while he dropped forever?
That worry ended in mid-thought with a bone-jarring thump. His boots had hit a solid surface. Ben's body was wrenched from his arms, and Hans heard a cry of agony as brightness grew around him.
He stood upright within a closed room. The nearest wall, without doors or windows, rose to a ceiling at least fifteen meters above. Hans turned back his head, and saw that a uniform glow came from the ceiling. The light had not been present when he first hit the floor. It was still slowly brightening. He and Ben must have dropped right through the ceiling, but there was no sign of it of their passage.
Ben's body lay face down on the floor a few meters in front of Hans. He had to be at least partly conscious, because as Hans watched he made an attempt to raise himself on his left arm. He groaned with the effort and fell forward again. His helmet clattered against the hard floor.
Hans started forward, but someone was ahead of him.
"Darya!"
She turned, and the face behind the suit's visor glowed with excitement. "We did it, Hans. We're inside Iceworld, just as I said we would be! But we have to look after Ben." She was cradling the body in her arms, gently turning it over. "Can you get at the external controls?"
"I will do it for myself." Ben spoke slowly. His face was white and sweating, but his next words were clear and rational. "Drugs first. The suit will know what to give me. When it hurts less, I will see if I can walk."
"Not until I've had a good look at you." Hans heard a hiss of gases inside the other's suit and saw the white fog inside the faceplate. In thirty more seconds, Ben should feel no pain. "You may think you feel all right, but you could do bad damage to yourself if you move. We have to get your suit off, examine you, and pad and splint you."
"While I suffocate in hard vacuum? No thanks."
Ben was right, of course. Hans glanced at the monitor in his own suit to confirm the pressure reading. A few moments ago it had been a flat zero. To his surprise the suit readout now showed a small positive value. As he watched, it flickered higher. The suit's sensor, tasting the composition of what lay outside, indicated a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen, plus a couple of percent of inert gases, helium and argon.
"Darya, what is going on here? We're getting an atmosphere."
"We've seen it before, Hans, on Glister and on Serenity." Darya's tone was satisfied, almost smug. "I said it's a Builder artifact, and I'm right. This proves it. Artifacts can tune themselves to the appropriate life form requirements. Wait a minute or two, and I bet we'll have air that we can breathe."
"Where is here? I assume we're somewhere inside Iceworld, but you remember how big it is. There could be billions of rooms like this. We could spend our whole lives wandering around."
"We could, but I don't think we will have to. Look about you, Hans. This place has no doors and no windows. Remember the games that the Builders can play with space-time connectivity? I wouldn't be surprised if every grid patch on the surface of Iceworld leads to the same interior chamber. I don't think we need to go looking at all. It will be enough if we sit tight and wait."
That sounded too optimistic for Hans. In any case, there was a job to be done, and sitting tight wouldn't be enough. He looked in through Ben Blesh's faceplate and saw that the pupils of the other man's eyes had contracted to black points. The drugs were taking effect. Ben should be able to talk and think, but he would soon be free of the worst pain.
"Don't try to move. I'm going to take a look at you." Hans began to ease the suit open.
"I'll help as much as I can." For someone in his desperate condition, Ben seemed at ease. "Can't move my right arm, not one bit. When I try to, something grates around inside. Broken bones, I suppose."
Hans eased the suit away from the right shoulder and upper body. The arm was easy, a simple impact fracture of the humerus with no sign of bone projecting or broken skin. He could not splint it, but the upper arm of the suit itself could be stiffened to form a kind of exoskeleton. The bone would have to be set properly later, but for the moment holding the arm in a fixed position would be enough.
The ribs were another matter. From the feel of them at least four were broken. The good news was that none had been driven inward to puncture a lung. Hans could use the suit's own supplies to pad and strap them. That might do the trick. In olden times before antiseptic methods, when it was dangerous to cut deep into the body, strapping had been the accepted and safest method of treating broken ribs. It could work here.
But where was here? As Hans worked on Ben, he glanced around the room. Darya was prowling the featureless perimeter. A successful job on Ben would leave the injured man, like Hans and Darya, free to die of dehydration and starvation. The room had breathable air but no sign of food or drink. The suits would feed them for a week or two, but eventually supplies would be exhausted.
Hans reached down to touch the floor. His gloved hand disturbed a thick coating of dust. This room had been unoccupied—for how long? Thousands of years, maybe millions. Perhaps the last time anyone had been here, this whole stellar system had been alive, with a blazing star at its center.
Hans opened his own suit—no point in using its air supply when the room they were in could provide for them. He did everything he could for Ben, then slipped the other's suit back over his body and right arm.
"Now I want you to try to stand up. Can you manage that?" He watched closely as Ben came to his feet. Hans had allowed the suit to continue to provide the medication needed to compensate for shock, but he had set a slightly lower level of painkillers. He wanted Ben to be aware of and favor his injured side, while still not suffering excessive pain.
Ben raised himself. He moved slowly, but smoothly.
"That's good. Can you sit down again—close to the wall?"
"I think so." Ben moved all the way to a sitting position.
Hans nodded approval. "That's right. Now stay there. You'll be better off leaning against the wall and resting."
And so would Hans himself. Suddenly he was bone tired. How long since they had last eaten? He said to Ben, "Can you drink something?"
"I don't know. But I don't really want to."
"Make the effort. See if you can manage a fortified drink."
Ben nodded. Hans took his own advice, sipping slowly and carefully and rolling each sip of tart liquid over his teeth and tongue
before he swallowed.
"Darya, why don't you come and sit down with us?"
She glanced back at him and shook her head. She had to be running on adrenaline—he had seen her like this before, too wound up to sit or even to stop moving. She would pay for it later.
If they had a later.
Hans leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His position was not comfortable, but comfort was a relative term. If he could manage to sleep shackled naked to an iron chair, he could certainly relax now. He was passing into a trance not far removed from sleep when he heard a mumble from next to him.
"Do you know what you are? A screwup, a total hopeless screwup."
Was Ben Blesh talking to Hans? But then he went on, "You say you're a survival specialist. You told Arabella Lund that it's what you'd always wanted to be, what you dreamed of doing. But look at you. You didn't help anyone to survive. You couldn't even save yourself. Other people had to do that for you. What are you going to do now? Some big deed of heroism, something that will save everybody? You think you'd die to achieve that, but I doubt that you'll have the chance. You're a screwup, a burden on others. You'll drag them down, unless you take the decent way out and kill yourself so they don't have to look after you."
Hans could not help listening, but what he heard did not worry him. A combination of shock, injury, and medications was at work on Ben Blesh, allowing deep-seated thoughts of inadequacy and self-doubt to emerge. Ideas like that normally lay in the mind's lowest levels, hidden away from the rest of the world. Hans didn't think any the worse of Ben because of them. He wondered what would emerge from his own mouth in similar circumstances. Nothing to be proud of, you could be sure of that—but nothing to be ashamed of, either, if he did as well as Ben. The other man wanted to be useful, to save others, to die himself if he had to.
As Hans drifted away again toward sleep, he reached a decision. When they emerged—if they emerged—from the interior of Iceworld, he would treat Ben Blesh with a lot more respect. It was the old story. You could train a man or woman as much as you liked in the peace and quiet of a training camp, but character developed and showed itself only in the rough-and-tumble messiness of the real world.
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