by Sharon Lee
The pilot in possession of her hand gently tugged Blinda out of the way, and the bemused pair from Keravath moved on.
The Scout spoke, gently. "I am lacking a book of Terran clans, my friend. I therefore beg that you will enlighten me, when we are back on ship, about your sudden new tension."
Jerthri shrugged and picked up his pace. Blinda wasn't a relative any closer than ninth or tenth cousins lawfully removed, of that he was sure, and he could play that tune.
"Not really a clan matter, but ship-friend stuff. Some ladies," he managed, "some ladies treat a guy they knew before they became adult . . . just like they're still just kids!"
He made the explanation in Terran, and it was a real complaint.
Ter'Astin chuckled. "There's a melant'i order of such things, my friend--age having consequence, after all. Though I admit that some who overexert charm may tend to overexert connection and consequence far beyond fact!"
*
The control room was not on the level marked for it: Jethri's push of the button opened a pressure door leading to an elevator. Once in the car they were queried by remote and could feel the device start moving only after they answered. There were numbers and letters showing on the read gauge--but what was floor A7B and why did the car pass floor 33C and Z16 to get there?
The scout laughed softly as Jethri felt the car go through a gravity field, so truly he had little idea of which end was up, or where, exactly, they were.
"Excellent security," the scout said when they had passed through one more change of gravity and decelerated to a stop.
The door opened, not into the control room itself but to an ante-chamber occupied by a smiling guard sitting behind a commanding console.
"Welcome to Tradedesk Control," she said. "Please, your names?"
They gave them; she repeated them to open space, and nodded toward a side panel which opened by splitting half to the floor and half toward the ceiling.
Inside was a corridor with a waiting guide who ushered them past two of the largest control rooms Jethri had ever seen, both dark and unused, and into one just as large which was lit, active, and filled with the sounds of low-key voices.
"Pilots! So good to see you!"
While the room had dozens of occupied workstations on one level, their guide directed them up four steps to a dais overlooking the rest of the room, a see-through shield between its single occupant and the rest of the action.
"I'm Director ViChels Carresens; please join me."
They did, exchanging hand grips Terran-fashion, and then sitting in the quiet around his console, behind what was probably more than just a sound screen. The area was rather homey for a control room--clearly this was the director's office as well as workstation. Several screens showed images of children and oddities, and bins held papers and notes galore.
"I witnessed your approach, Pilots, and commend you. Pilot ven'Deelin, a very precise understanding of the situation with our commit. Our assistant flight ops has won a bet by suggesting that a first-time-in Scout ship would link within sixty seconds of the best link time yet--and you did."
He turned a screen toward them, pointed at the graph.
"Here's the average time for all links so far, here's the average time for first-time links, and here's yours. Only two first-time links have been achieved in better time. Congratulations!"
Jethri felt himself reddening, suppressed the urge to say, "But I'm not a pilot." He glanced at ter'Astin, who looked back at him with bland interest.
"Thank you, sir," he said to the director.
"Don't thank me--I intend to mention this at every occasion. Please understand the other speedy links were performed with no other ships attached to the arm, and by pilots trained in our simulators."
Jethri pressed his mouth straight. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw ter'Astin give him a gentle, seated bow.
The director went on, "It would be interesting to see what you do while we're in transfer--Nubella Run is set to dock in just a few days."
Jethri looked to the Scout and the director laughed.
"Yes, I forget, not everyone is as wrapped in my schedule as we are in this office. My family--the Carresens--donated Nubella Run to the effort--she will be docked and bound to the station, and will be the motive force for our move. A brave task for any ship!"
The smile faded, and he looked suddenly more businesslike.
"But I bring you here for another topic--and that is this writ."
The saying of the word "writ" was punctuated by a slap of hardcopy pulled from a bin.
"The link-news squeezed into your log-in included several bits of legal stuff--including this writ. And I'm concerned about it, actually, in terms of effect on trade. I haven't the full access without you invoking it--all I know is that you can invoke it.--and as a signatory to . . . an agreement . . . well, it wouldn't look good if we start arresting people for you."
The Scout beat Jethri to the holding out of a hand by a moment, and he took the flimsies silently when given, flipping through, and handing them over to Jethri.
Jethri read Plea for on-demand invocation of Writ of Replevin and he blanched.
"I hadn't understood entirely the means by which this was to be disseminated," the Scout admitted, "and perhaps neither did my companion."
"Didn't," Jethri whispered it. "And I didn't think of it. They've built it into the autonews feed?"
Carresens nodded. "Right in with confirmations of arrival and all that. It started printing out before you were on the docks."
Jethri went back over the page . . .
"If you've come here on some kind of a hunt, I hope you'll understand that we need confidentiality and quiet. It wouldn't be neighborly to start cuffing folks, if you know what I mean."
"That's not why we're here," Jethri said, "At least not here here. We're here because I got the invite, and this . . ."
"What the guest pilot is saying," the Scout took over, "is that we have a destination farther on at which this . . . writ . . . may be required. We ask that you, too, keep it in confidence. Here, we are on a trade mission for my associate and we have no expectation that anyone connected with this writ's necessity will cross our path."
The director looked down at the papers and pushed them back into Jethri's hands.
"You hold these. Properly they are yours, in any case. If it becomes necessary to invoke them, you will talk to me first. Is that clear? I will see to follow-up, if required. Do not, I ask, make a fuss."
Out of the midst of the console came a buzzing noise, and Carresens said: "Go Blue."
"Trainee Molunkus on the module mover's got an anomaly in the power unit again. Only happens to him. If I send . . ."
"Hold, Blue!"
The director turned to them with a shrug. "So that's it. You're here for trade and networks and that's fine and we're glad to have you. I'll smile at you when I see you, righto? And I wish you luck down the road catching up with whoever's a problem. In fact, if you catch them, let us know--we're really just getting started in the trade center business and we need to know how these things work. Just not right now.
"Oh, and check in at the guard desk on your way out of Control. There'll be some tickets and such for you there. Thanks for coming by!"
The Scout stood a second behind Jethri, both knowing a dismissal when it was delivered.
Chapter Seventeen
Tradedesk
After the day of tours and lectures--the first official day of the event--Jethri returned to Keravath to shower and change clothes for the evening reception in the Hall of Festivals. Ter'Astin came in while he was primping--the Scout's word, not Jethri's--and did some primping of his own. It seemed a little unfair, Jethri thought, that a pilot's jacket was considered to be the equivalent of formal trade wear, though the Scout did take the trouble to upgrade his standard dark sweater to a creamy shirt with a collar banded in green, and to set an earring to dangle seductively from one ear.
Toilettes complete, they
left the ship together in amity, Jethri giving a brief overview of a day filled with discussions of trade volume and preleased warehousing, as well as tours of transfer docks and demonstrations of the internal pod-breaking room.
For his part of the conversation, the Scout offered the information that Wynhael had managed a docking in the end, being relegated to a zero-G low pressure sub-corridor where the next module of the not-quite-finished auxiliary hotel would eventually be attached.
"No more than they bargained for," Jethri said.
"Indeed, it did seem that they would be rid of the coin, no matter the market."
Between them as they traveled toward the Hall of Festivals, they managed to bow, nod, or shake hands with over a dozen fellow attendees. Eventually, Jethri had learned only that morning, Tradedesk would encompass a number of smaller halls, as well as the great hall, but for this night only the large hall was public, the others being reserved for official needs and food preparation or else still skeletal.
Jethri was aimed foremost at dinner, and while the scout promised to eventually come to the repast, using the ticket given him by Control, the errands that had occupied his day had spilled over into station evening hours.
"A few people I must yet speak with, here or rumored to be here," he murmured. "When I am done, I will find you, doubtless surrounded by admirers, and the trade assistant on your arm."
"Doubtless," Jethri said, dryly and so they parted at the hall's end, the Scout going right toward the pilot's lounge, and Jethri, left, joining a goodly crowd of people on route for the great hall.
Jethri's tickets--two, one for him and one for "Guest of Trader ven'Deelin," which had immediately gone to ter'Astin-- had come to him in a fine paper envelope marked with his name, and bearing a shiny red embossed message: "The Carresens Welcome You." A note had been tucked in with the tickets: Trade dress is recommended for our quiet after-dinner reception and the Sternako Memorial Trade-off, in Gallery 770.
Jethri's last few steps toward the hall were given over to comprehending the size of the place he was to eat in. The passageway had split into an atrium with levels towering above him; he'd seen starships small enough to cruise through the doorway he was entering!
There was an awning over the massive door, which puzzled him until he understood that it was part of an emergency sealing system. He'd nearly forgotten that he wasn't on planet, so vast was this place.
Dinner was a badged walk-in party two hundred paces long with serving tables and booths on both sides and grab-plates everywhere, occupying only one side of the hall. His ID and ticket netted him yet another ID at the door, where smartly dressed door dragons of both sexes smiled and asked permission before attaching the name bars.
"Honored Trader, the adhesive evaporates entirely in twenty-four hours; if you need it removed before then, please stop by and we'll use the sonic to clear it.
"Also," the server said, diffidently, "with your badge you may sit anywhere you like: you'll see the overhead color-coding if you prefer to sit with your own!"
Jethri's badge said jethri g. ven'deelin in Trade lettering, and beneath that, a fairly accurate rendering of the same, in Liaden script. Three faintly glowing color bars depended from it, which was something not everybody had-- for example the young man dealing with him had a badge saying Folly Smelkin, that supported a single deep purple bar, the same color he saw flashing on the others handling door duty.
Jethri's bar colors were green, bright blue, and a red reminding him very much of Gaenor's drai'vaina. Looking around he saw a good sprinkling of people with the green bar--green bars must be the color for traders, he decided, recognizing fellow lecture attendees from the day's work. There were a few folks with the bright blue and there was one he recognized--the pilot he'd seen with Blinda! He had that bar and no other. So either blue was for loopers or for pilots, which made him shake his head. Not likely for loopers, so must be pilots. Well, who was he to deny the organizers one more pilot for their shindig?
The red bar . . . that wasn't so obvious as to meaning, and rather than holding up progress at the door he moved on, prepared to ask in case he couldn't figure it out.
The noise was louder than Jethri'd expected, but part of that was the music permeating the future trade hall. Careful spot speakers aimed hymns, dance music, classics, tonal stuff--each booth offering their own choice of volume, with the music fading away and replaced by a new tune or rhythm as he entered the next zone. It felt fine--and then it didn't.
A touch of dread worked itself on him, and he felt as if he were here under false pretenses--Master Trader Norn ven'Deelin should be here, not he, he who was not a pilot, and not really able to support the "Honored Trader" he'd been given at the door. Too, a glance around showed him a room filling with individuals dressed not quite at the height of fashion, ordinary folks wearing what might be the best of their day clothes instead of being dressed and polished and ready to trade, as he was.
Jethri jerked where he stood, as if run into, stiffened so hard he could hear the snap of his shoulder. He backed away from the table carefully, aware that he'd need to start again, but needing focus. The sound, the people all around, the motion. He caught a ragged breath, offered a half bow to someone he'd come too close to, took another half breath. He glanced down, trying to focus on something, and saw his boots with their multiple inlays of colored leather forming patterns that a careful observer might note as variations on Ixin's own moon-and-rabbit. He glanced down at his hands. Yes, he was overdressed, with his trade ring on one hand and the challenge of the firegem wonder on the other. Why did he think he, lowly beginning trader Jethri, could pull off wearing such a monstrosity in public?
The firegem said nothing, flashing the myriad of overhead lights back to him in a way the trade ring never could. Someone in a kilt wandered by, humming loud enough that Jethri could hear him, a reminder that he was not alone--
He swept a quick look around, taking a quieting breath, and another. If anyone had noticed him standing as still as an extra support pillar, they weren't staring at him now. Air is good, Jethri, he told himself. Breathe!
Standing in the very center of the aisle he let the echo from the half-dozen booths wash over him, the aural competition momentarily eclipsing the other assault on his senses: the smells.
Yes, that was it, the dislocating touch of panic had come not only from the scale of the place, but from the sensory overload. The hall vibrated with voices, music, and just plain noise, and the air was redolent with the powerful, enchanting, and puzzling scents of too much food!
He was, he knew, extra-sensitive to smells. His years on nonstop stinks duty made him all too conscious of the difficulty of overcoming even pleasant odors in a closed environment, and here was the kind of thing he might have expected at an extravagant outdoor affair on Irikwae. So much food and so much of it cooking, now, was . . . unexpected.
Eyes momentarily closed, he sniffed as he might have on Gobelyn's Market. Yes, his nose was well trained, and he got his breathing back into rhythm as he opened his eyes, concentrating, knowing he couldn't decode the whole place at once, which he'd figured was the problem with his world-side panics. To concentrate he might as well start with his trained olfactory, so he sniffed again.
The aroma of bread and baked goods was all around him, and the scent of fruits and flowers. Under it all and magnifying it, were the oil and greases. Vincza prided itself on the vegetable oils it produced, and in this place they were being used extravagantly. He wondered how the filters and stinks crews would be able to clear the place . . ..
Professional interest kicked in--which stinks would be hardest to deal with? Did they need special filters? What about cleanup?
He'd come to eat and to mingle and to consider how Elthoria--and truth told, how Gobelyn's Market--might best make use of Tradedesk when it went full open the next couple of Standards. A little concentration now--starting with the food choices once again--would be a good beginning. Then he'd find someplace to sit.
He really needn't be concerned that he was an imposter. He carried with him the ID he had from Dorster, he wore the badge he'd been given, he . . . why yes, patting the appropriate pocket for reassurance, he even had a printed copy of the file Norn ven'Deelin had sent, with his invitation information from the Casehardens Coordinating Committee. It had been signed by someone, who he guessed he should be on the lookout for. The name tickled at his brain without result. He could check if need be, but . . .
"It's quite too much to eat, isn't it, young man? I'm having a difficult time choosing where to start! Do you know all of the dishes or could you use pointers? I know the layout by heart!"
*
Grandma Doricky Gellman DeNobli did know the layout by heart--she'd designed the original, as she was more than glad to tell him, forty-two local years before. In the interval she'd helped with the "food suite" at the Carresens trade fair fourteen times . . . that was each of the previous times it had been held.
"Consultant," she said with a snark, "that's what they made me this time, on account of they're making the big push to bring Tradedesk online and I"--she pinched her eyes shut for a second--"managed to get myself crushed by an icefall at a cheese plant just after the last one."
"Crushed?" While she was tiny, and had moved slowly among the dishes, Jethri had ascribed her pace to her age, for surely she was the oldest functional human he'd ever met. Her eyes were as strong as her voice, but her hair was so gray it was bordering on transparent, and her skin was fine-wrinkled. She was as small as the smallest adult Liaden he'd ever met.
"Oh, I know, and don't you think I'm exaggerating. Crushed. Took me a long while to get all these parts working, and I'm only good for a twenty-hour day if I have a nap or two any more, when used-to-was I'd work forty straight if I needed to. Thing is, I used to be a lot bigger.
"That dish," she said, pointing with wrinkled fingers, "is for purists. Can't suggest it to anyone not raised on-world. You need triple fermented vinegar to make it proper, and even then you need to be right comfortable with your crawling yeast, 'cause if it isn't able to crawl some while you swallow it then it's off and can make you sick for a two-day. There's some that're just plain allergic, anyhow."