"WHAT IN”—Frank Mura, steward,
storekeeper, and cook of the Queen, retreated into the nearest
cabin doorway as the young Salarik flashed down the ladder into his
section.
Dane, with the now resigned Sinbad in the crook of his arm, had
tailed his guest and arrived just in time to see the native come to
an abrupt halt before one of the most important doors in the
spacer—the portal of the hydro garden which renewed the
ship’s oxygen and supplied them with fresh fruit and
vegetables to vary their diet of concentrates.
The Salarik laid one hand on the smooth surface of the sealed
compartment and looked back over his shoulder at Dane with an
inquiry to which was added something of a plea. Guided by his
instinct—that this was important to them all—Dane spoke
to Mura:
“Can you let him in there, Frank?”
It was not sensible, it might even be dangerous. But every
member of the crew knew the necessity for making some sort of
contact with the natives. Mura did not even nod, but squeezed by
the Salarik and pressed the lock. There was a sigh of air, and the
crisp smell of growing things, lacking the languorous perfumes of
the world outside, puffed into their faces.
The cub remained where he was, his head up, his wide nostrils
visibly drinking in that smell. Then he moved with the silent,
uncanny speed which was the heritage of his race, darting down the
narrow aisle toward a mass of greenery at the far end.
Sinbad kicked and growled. This was his private hunting
ground—the preserve he kept free of invaders. Dane put the
cat down. The Salarik had found what he was seeking. He stood on
tiptoe to sniff at a plant, his yellow eyes half closed, his whole stance spelling ecstasy. Dane looked to the steward
for enlightenment.
“What’s he so interested in, Frank?”
“Catnip.”
“Catnip?” Dane repeated. The word meant nothing to
him, but Mura had a habit of picking up strange plants and
cultivating them for study. “What is it?”
“One of the Terran mints—an herb,” Mura gave a
short explanation as he moved down the aisle toward the alien. He
broke off a leaf and crushed it between his fingers.
Dane, his sense of smell largely deadened by the pungency with
which he had been surrounded by most of that day, could distinguish
no new odor. But the young Salarik swung around to face the steward,
his eyes wide, his nose questing. And Sinbad gave a whining yowl
and made a spring to push his head against the steward’s now
aromatic hand.
So—now they had it—an opening wedge. Dane came up to
the three.
“All right to take a leaf or two?” he asked
Mura.
“Why not? I grow it for Sinbad. To a cat it is like heemel
smoke or a tankard of lackibod.”
And by Sinbad’s actions Dane guessed that the plant did
hold for the cat the same attraction those stimulants produced in
human beings. He carefully broke off a small stem supporting three
leaves and presented it to the Salarik, who stared at him and then,
snatching the twig, raced from the hydro garden as if pursued by
feuding clansmen.
Dane heard the pad of his feet on the ladder—apparently
the cub was making sure of escape with his precious find. But the
Cargo-master apprentice was frowning. As far as he could see there
were only five of the plants.
“That’s all the catnip you have?”
Mura tucked Sinbad under his arm and shooed Dane before him out
of the hydro. “There was no need to grow more. A small
portion of the herb goes a long way with this one,” he put
the cat down in the corridor. “The leaves may be preserved by drying. I believe that there is a small box of
them in the galley.”
A strictly limited supply. Suppose this was the key which would
unlock the Koros trade? And yet it was to be summed up in five
plants and a few dried leaves! However, Van Rycke must know of this
as soon as possible.
But to Dane’s growing discomfiture the Cargo-master showed
no elation as his junior poured out the particulars of his
discovery. Instead there were definite signs of displeasure to be
read by those who knew Van Rycke well. He heard Dane out and then
got to his feet. Tolling the younger man with him by a crooked
finger, he went out of his combined office-living quarters to the
domain of Medic Craig Tau.
“Problem for you, Craig.” Van Rycke seated his bulk
on the wall jump seat Tau pulled down for him. Dane was left
standing just within the door, very sure now that instead of being
commended for his discovery of a few minutes before, he was about
to suffer some reprimand. And the reason for it still eluded
him.
“What do you know about that plant Mura grows in the
hydro—the one called ‘catnip’?”
Tau did not appear surprised at that demand—the Medic of a
Free Trading spacer was never surprised at anything. He had his
surfeit of shocks during his first years of service and after that
accepted any occurrence, no matter how weird, as matter-of-fact. In
addition Tau’s hobby was “magic,” the hidden
knowledge possessed and used by witch doctors and medicine men on
alien worlds. He had a library of recordings, of odd scraps of
information, of certified results of certain very peculiar
experiments. Now and then he wrote a report which was sent into
Central Service, read with raised eyebrows by perhaps half a dozen
incredulous desk warmers, and filed away to be safely forgotten.
But even that had ceased to frustrate him.
“It’s an herb of the mint family from Terra,”
he replied. “Mura grows it for Sinbad—has quite a
marked influence on cats. Frank’s been trying to keep him
anchored to the ship by allowing him to roll in fresh leaves. He does it—then
continues to sneak out whenever he can—”
That explained something for Dane—why the Salariki cub
wished to enter the Queen tonight. Some of the scent of the plant
had clung to Sinbad’s fur, had been detected, and the Salarik
had wanted to trace it to its source.
“Is it a drug?” Van Rycke prodded.
“In the way that all herbs are drugs. Human beings have
dosed themselves in the past with a tea made of the dried leaves.
It has no great medicinal properties. To felines it is a
stimulation—and they get the same satisfaction from rolling
in and eating the leaves as we do from drinking—”
“The Salariki are, in a manner of speaking,
felines—” Van Rycke mused.
Tau straightened. “The Salariki have discovered catnip, I
take it?”
Van Rycke nodded at Dane and for the second time the
Cargo-master apprentice made his report. When he was done Van Rycke
asked a direct question of the medical officer:
“What affect would catnip have on a Salarik?”
It was only then that Dane grasped the enormity of what he had
done. They had no way of gauging the influence of an off-world
plant on alien metabolism. What if he had introduced to the natives
of Sargol a dangerous drug—started that cub on some path of
addiction. He was cold inside. Why, he might even have poisoned the
child!
Tau picked up his cap, and after a second’s hesitation,
his emergency medical kit. He had only one question for Dane.
“Any idea of who the cub is—what clan he belongs
to?”
And Dane, chill with real fear, was forced to answer in the
negative. What had he done!
“Can you find him?” Van Rycke, ignoring Dane, spoke
to Tau.
The Medic shrugged. “I can try. I was out scouting this
morning—met one of the storm priests who handles their
medical work. But I wasn’t welcomed. However, under the
circumstances, we have to try something—”
In the corridor Van Rycke had an order for Dane. “I
suggest that you keep to quarters, Thorson, until we know how
matters stand.”
Dane saluted. That note in his superior’s voice was like a
whip lash—much worse to take than the abuse of a lesser man.
He swallowed as he shut himself into his own cramped cubby. This
might be the end of their venture. And they would be lucky if their
charter was not withdrawn. Let I-S get an inkling of his rash
action and the Company would have them up before the Board to be
stripped of all their rights in the Service. Just because of his
own stupidity—his pride in being able to break through where
Van Rycke and the Captain had faced a stone wall. And, worse than
the future which could face the Queen, was the thought that he
might have introduced some dangerous drug into Sargol with his gift
of those few leaves. When would he learn? He threw himself face
down on his bunk and despondently pictured the string of calamities
which could and maybe would stem from his thoughtless and hasty
action.
Within the Queen night and day were mechanical—the
lighting in the cabins did not vary much. Dane did not know how
long he lay there forcing his mind to consider his stupid action,
making himself face that in the Service there were no short cuts
which endangered others—not unless those taking the risks
were Terrans.
“Dane—!” Rip Shannon’s voice cut through
his self-imposed nightmare. But he refused to answer.
“Dane—Van wants you on the double!”
Why? To bring him up before Jellico probably. Dane schooled his
expression, got up, pulling his tunic straight, still unable to
meet Rip’s eyes. Shannon was just one of those he had let
down so badly. But the other did not notice his mood. “Wait
’til you see them—! Half Sargol must be here yelling
for trade!”
That comment was so far from what he had been expecting that
Dane was startled out of his own gloomy thoughts.
Rip’s brown face was one wide smile, his black eyes danced—it was plain he was honestly elated.
“Get a move on, fire rockets,” he urged, “or
Van will blast you for fair!”
Dane did move, up the ladder to the next level and out onto the
port ramp. What he saw below brought him up short. Evening had come
to Sargol but the scene immediately below was not in darkness.
Blazing torches advanced in lines from the grass forest and the
portable flood light of the spacer added to the general glare,
turning night into noonday.
Van Rycke and Jellico sat on stools facing at least five of the
seven major chieftains with whom they had conferred to no purpose
earlier. And behind these leaders milled a throng of lesser
Salariki. Yes, there was at least one carrying chair—and
also an orgel from the back of which a veiled noblewoman was being
assisted to dismount by two retainers. The women of the clans were
coming—which could mean only that trade was at last in
progress. But trade for what?
Dane strode down the ramp. He saw Paft, his hand carefully
covered by his trade cloth, advance to Van Rycke, whose own fingers
were decently veiled by a handkerchief. Under the folds of fabric
their hands touched. The bargaining was in the first stages. And it
was important enough for the clan leaders to conduct themselves.
Where, according to Cam’s records, it had been usual to
delegate that power to a favored liege man.
Catching the light from the ship’s beam and from the
softer flares of the Salariki torches was a small pile of stones
resting on a stool to one side. Dane drew a deep breath. He had
heard the Koros stones described, had seen the tri-dee print of one
found among Cam’s recordings but the reality was beyond his
expectations. He knew the technical analysis of the gems—that
they were, as the amber of Terra, the fossilized resin exuded by
ancient plants (maybe the ancestors of the grass trees) long buried
in the saline deposits of the shallow seas where chemical changes
had taken place to produce the wonder jewels. In color they shaded
from a rosy apricot to a rich mauve, but in their depths other colors,
silver, fiery gold, spun sparks which seemed to move as the gem was
turned. And—which was what first endeared them to the
Salariki—when worn against the skin and warmed by body heat
they gave off a perfume which enchanted not only the Sargolian
natives but all in the Galaxy wealthy enough to own one.
On another stool placed at Van Rycke’s right hand, as that
bearing the Koros stones was at Paft’s, was a transparent
plastic box containing some wrinkled brownish leaves. Dane moved as
unobtrusively as he could to his proper place at such a trading
session, behind Van Rycke. More Salariki were tramping out of the
forest, torch bearing retainers and cloaked warriors. A little to
one side was a third party Dane had not seen before.
They were clustered about a staff which had been driven into the
ground, a staff topped with a white streamer marking a temporary
trading ground. These were Salariki right enough but they did not
wear the colorful garb of those about them, instead they were all
clad alike in muffling, sleeved robes of a drab green—the
storm priests—their robes denoting the color of the Sargolian
sky just before the onslaught of their worst tempests. Cam had not
left many clues concerning the religion of the Salariki, but the
storm priests had, in narrowly defined limits, power, and their
recognition of the Terran Traders would add to good feeling.
In the knot of storm priests a Terran stood—Medic
Tau—and he was talking earnestly with the leader of the
religious party. Dane would have given much to have been free to
cross and ask Tau a question or two. Was all this assembly the
result of the discovery in the hydro? But even as he asked himself
that, the trade cloths were shaken from the hands of the bargainers
and Van Rycke gave an order over his shoulder.
“Measure out two spoonsful of the dried leaves into a box—” he pointed to a tiny plastic container.
With painstaking care Dane followed directions. At the same time a servant of the Salarik chief swept the handful of
gems from the other stool and dropped them in a heap before Van
Rycke, who transferred them to a strong box resting between his
feet. Paft arose—but he had hardly quitted the trading seat
before one of the lesser clan leaders had taken his place, the
bargaining cloth ready looped loosely about his wrist.
It was at that point that the proceedings were interrupted. A
new party came into the open, their utilitarian Trade tunics making
a drab blot as they threaded their way in a compact group through
the throng of Salariki. I-S men! So they had not lifted from
Sargol.
They showed no signs of uneasiness—it was as if
their rights were being infringed by the Free Traders. And
Kallee, their Cargo-master, swaggered straight to the bargaining
point. The chatter of Salariki voices was stilled, the Sargolians
withdrew a little, letting one party of Terrans face the other,
sensing drama to come. Neither Van Rycke nor Jellico spoke, it was
left to Kallee to state his case.
“You’ve crooked your orbit this time, bright
boys,” his jeer was a pean of triumph. “Code
Three—Article six—or can’t you absorb rules tapes
with you thick heads?”
Code Three—Article six, Dane searched his memory for that
law of the Service. The words flashed into his mind as the
auto-learner had planted them during his first year of training
back in the Pool.
“To no alien race shall any Trader introduce any drug,
food, or drink from off world, until such a substance has been
certified as nonharmful to the aliens.’”
There it was! I-S had them and it was all his fault. But if he
had been so wrong, why in the world did Van Rycke sit there
trading, condoning the error and making it into a crime for which
they could be summoned before the Board and struck off the rolls of
the Service?
Van Rycke smiled gently. “Code Four—Article
two,” he quoted with the genial air of one playing gift-giver
at a Forkidan feasting.
Code Four, Article two: Any organic substance offered for trade must be examined by a committee of trained medical
experts, an equal representation of Terrans and aliens.
Kallee’s sneering smile did not vanish.
“Well,” he challenged, “where’s your board
of experts?”
“Tau!” Van Rycke called to the Medic with the storm
priests. “Will you ask your colleague to be so kind as to
allow the Cargo-master Kallee to be presented?”
The tall, dark young Terran Medic spoke to the priest beside him
and together they came across the clearing. Van Rycke and Jellico
both arose and inclined their heads in honor to the priests, as did
the chief with whom they had been about to deal.
“Reader of clouds and master of many winds,”
Tau’s voice flowed with the many voweled titles of the
Sargolian, “may I bring before your face Cargo-master Kallee,
a servant of Inter-Solar in the realm of Trade?”
The storm priest’s shaven skull and body gleamed steel
gray in the light. His eyes, of that startling blue-green, regarded
the I-S party with cynical detachment.
“You wish of me?” Plainly he was one who believed in
getting down to essentials at once.
Kallee could not be overawed. “These Free Traders have
introduced among your people a powerful drug which will bring much
evil,” he spoke slowly in simple words as if he were
addressing a cub.
“You have evidence of such evil?” countered the
storm priest. “In what manner is this new plant
evil?”
For a moment Kallee was disconcerted. But he rallied quickly.
“It has not been tested—you do not know how it will
affect your people—”
The storm priest shook his head impatiently. “We are not
lacking in intelligence, Trader. This plant has been
tested, both by your master of life secrets and ours. There is no
harm in it—rather it is a good thing, to be highly
prized—so highly that we shall give thanks that it was
brought unto us. This speech-together is finished.” He pulled the loose
folds of his robe closer about him and walked away.
“Now,” Van Rycke addressed the I-S party, “I
must ask you to withdraw. Under the rules of Trade your presence
here can be actively resented—”
But Kallee had lost little of his assurance. “You
haven’t heard the last of this. A tape of the whole
proceedings goes to the Board—”
“As you wish. But in the meantime—” Van Rycke
gestured to the waiting Salariki who were beginning to mutter
impatiently. Kallee glanced around, heard those mutters, and made
the only move possible, away from the Queen. He was not quite so
cocky, but neither had he surrendered.
Dane caught at Tau’s sleeve and asked the question which
had been burning in him since he had come upon the scene.
“What happened—about the catnip?”
There was lightening of the serious expression on Tau’s
face.
“Fortunately for you that child took the leaves to the
storm priest. They tested and approved it. And I can’t see
that it has any ill effects. But you were just lucky,
Thorson—it might have gone another way.”
Dane sighed. “I know that, sir,” he confessed.
“I’m not trying to rocket out—”
Tau gave a half-smile. “We all off-fire our tubes at
times,” he conceded. “Only next time—”
He did not need to complete that warning as Dane caught him
up:
“There isn’t going to be a next time like this,
sir—ever!”
"WHAT IN”—Frank Mura, steward,
storekeeper, and cook of the Queen, retreated into the nearest
cabin doorway as the young Salarik flashed down the ladder into his
section.
Dane, with the now resigned Sinbad in the crook of his arm, had
tailed his guest and arrived just in time to see the native come to
an abrupt halt before one of the most important doors in the
spacer—the portal of the hydro garden which renewed the
ship’s oxygen and supplied them with fresh fruit and
vegetables to vary their diet of concentrates.
The Salarik laid one hand on the smooth surface of the sealed
compartment and looked back over his shoulder at Dane with an
inquiry to which was added something of a plea. Guided by his
instinct—that this was important to them all—Dane spoke
to Mura:
“Can you let him in there, Frank?”
It was not sensible, it might even be dangerous. But every
member of the crew knew the necessity for making some sort of
contact with the natives. Mura did not even nod, but squeezed by
the Salarik and pressed the lock. There was a sigh of air, and the
crisp smell of growing things, lacking the languorous perfumes of
the world outside, puffed into their faces.
The cub remained where he was, his head up, his wide nostrils
visibly drinking in that smell. Then he moved with the silent,
uncanny speed which was the heritage of his race, darting down the
narrow aisle toward a mass of greenery at the far end.
Sinbad kicked and growled. This was his private hunting
ground—the preserve he kept free of invaders. Dane put the
cat down. The Salarik had found what he was seeking. He stood on
tiptoe to sniff at a plant, his yellow eyes half closed, his whole stance spelling ecstasy. Dane looked to the steward
for enlightenment.
“What’s he so interested in, Frank?”
“Catnip.”
“Catnip?” Dane repeated. The word meant nothing to
him, but Mura had a habit of picking up strange plants and
cultivating them for study. “What is it?”
“One of the Terran mints—an herb,” Mura gave a
short explanation as he moved down the aisle toward the alien. He
broke off a leaf and crushed it between his fingers.
Dane, his sense of smell largely deadened by the pungency with
which he had been surrounded by most of that day, could distinguish
no new odor. But the young Salarik swung around to face the steward,
his eyes wide, his nose questing. And Sinbad gave a whining yowl
and made a spring to push his head against the steward’s now
aromatic hand.
So—now they had it—an opening wedge. Dane came up to
the three.
“All right to take a leaf or two?” he asked
Mura.
“Why not? I grow it for Sinbad. To a cat it is like heemel
smoke or a tankard of lackibod.”
And by Sinbad’s actions Dane guessed that the plant did
hold for the cat the same attraction those stimulants produced in
human beings. He carefully broke off a small stem supporting three
leaves and presented it to the Salarik, who stared at him and then,
snatching the twig, raced from the hydro garden as if pursued by
feuding clansmen.
Dane heard the pad of his feet on the ladder—apparently
the cub was making sure of escape with his precious find. But the
Cargo-master apprentice was frowning. As far as he could see there
were only five of the plants.
“That’s all the catnip you have?”
Mura tucked Sinbad under his arm and shooed Dane before him out
of the hydro. “There was no need to grow more. A small
portion of the herb goes a long way with this one,” he put
the cat down in the corridor. “The leaves may be preserved by drying. I believe that there is a small box of
them in the galley.”
A strictly limited supply. Suppose this was the key which would
unlock the Koros trade? And yet it was to be summed up in five
plants and a few dried leaves! However, Van Rycke must know of this
as soon as possible.
But to Dane’s growing discomfiture the Cargo-master showed
no elation as his junior poured out the particulars of his
discovery. Instead there were definite signs of displeasure to be
read by those who knew Van Rycke well. He heard Dane out and then
got to his feet. Tolling the younger man with him by a crooked
finger, he went out of his combined office-living quarters to the
domain of Medic Craig Tau.
“Problem for you, Craig.” Van Rycke seated his bulk
on the wall jump seat Tau pulled down for him. Dane was left
standing just within the door, very sure now that instead of being
commended for his discovery of a few minutes before, he was about
to suffer some reprimand. And the reason for it still eluded
him.
“What do you know about that plant Mura grows in the
hydro—the one called ‘catnip’?”
Tau did not appear surprised at that demand—the Medic of a
Free Trading spacer was never surprised at anything. He had his
surfeit of shocks during his first years of service and after that
accepted any occurrence, no matter how weird, as matter-of-fact. In
addition Tau’s hobby was “magic,” the hidden
knowledge possessed and used by witch doctors and medicine men on
alien worlds. He had a library of recordings, of odd scraps of
information, of certified results of certain very peculiar
experiments. Now and then he wrote a report which was sent into
Central Service, read with raised eyebrows by perhaps half a dozen
incredulous desk warmers, and filed away to be safely forgotten.
But even that had ceased to frustrate him.
“It’s an herb of the mint family from Terra,”
he replied. “Mura grows it for Sinbad—has quite a
marked influence on cats. Frank’s been trying to keep him
anchored to the ship by allowing him to roll in fresh leaves. He does it—then
continues to sneak out whenever he can—”
That explained something for Dane—why the Salariki cub
wished to enter the Queen tonight. Some of the scent of the plant
had clung to Sinbad’s fur, had been detected, and the Salarik
had wanted to trace it to its source.
“Is it a drug?” Van Rycke prodded.
“In the way that all herbs are drugs. Human beings have
dosed themselves in the past with a tea made of the dried leaves.
It has no great medicinal properties. To felines it is a
stimulation—and they get the same satisfaction from rolling
in and eating the leaves as we do from drinking—”
“The Salariki are, in a manner of speaking,
felines—” Van Rycke mused.
Tau straightened. “The Salariki have discovered catnip, I
take it?”
Van Rycke nodded at Dane and for the second time the
Cargo-master apprentice made his report. When he was done Van Rycke
asked a direct question of the medical officer:
“What affect would catnip have on a Salarik?”
It was only then that Dane grasped the enormity of what he had
done. They had no way of gauging the influence of an off-world
plant on alien metabolism. What if he had introduced to the natives
of Sargol a dangerous drug—started that cub on some path of
addiction. He was cold inside. Why, he might even have poisoned the
child!
Tau picked up his cap, and after a second’s hesitation,
his emergency medical kit. He had only one question for Dane.
“Any idea of who the cub is—what clan he belongs
to?”
And Dane, chill with real fear, was forced to answer in the
negative. What had he done!
“Can you find him?” Van Rycke, ignoring Dane, spoke
to Tau.
The Medic shrugged. “I can try. I was out scouting this
morning—met one of the storm priests who handles their
medical work. But I wasn’t welcomed. However, under the
circumstances, we have to try something—”
In the corridor Van Rycke had an order for Dane. “I
suggest that you keep to quarters, Thorson, until we know how
matters stand.”
Dane saluted. That note in his superior’s voice was like a
whip lash—much worse to take than the abuse of a lesser man.
He swallowed as he shut himself into his own cramped cubby. This
might be the end of their venture. And they would be lucky if their
charter was not withdrawn. Let I-S get an inkling of his rash
action and the Company would have them up before the Board to be
stripped of all their rights in the Service. Just because of his
own stupidity—his pride in being able to break through where
Van Rycke and the Captain had faced a stone wall. And, worse than
the future which could face the Queen, was the thought that he
might have introduced some dangerous drug into Sargol with his gift
of those few leaves. When would he learn? He threw himself face
down on his bunk and despondently pictured the string of calamities
which could and maybe would stem from his thoughtless and hasty
action.
Within the Queen night and day were mechanical—the
lighting in the cabins did not vary much. Dane did not know how
long he lay there forcing his mind to consider his stupid action,
making himself face that in the Service there were no short cuts
which endangered others—not unless those taking the risks
were Terrans.
“Dane—!” Rip Shannon’s voice cut through
his self-imposed nightmare. But he refused to answer.
“Dane—Van wants you on the double!”
Why? To bring him up before Jellico probably. Dane schooled his
expression, got up, pulling his tunic straight, still unable to
meet Rip’s eyes. Shannon was just one of those he had let
down so badly. But the other did not notice his mood. “Wait
’til you see them—! Half Sargol must be here yelling
for trade!”
That comment was so far from what he had been expecting that
Dane was startled out of his own gloomy thoughts.
Rip’s brown face was one wide smile, his black eyes danced—it was plain he was honestly elated.
“Get a move on, fire rockets,” he urged, “or
Van will blast you for fair!”
Dane did move, up the ladder to the next level and out onto the
port ramp. What he saw below brought him up short. Evening had come
to Sargol but the scene immediately below was not in darkness.
Blazing torches advanced in lines from the grass forest and the
portable flood light of the spacer added to the general glare,
turning night into noonday.
Van Rycke and Jellico sat on stools facing at least five of the
seven major chieftains with whom they had conferred to no purpose
earlier. And behind these leaders milled a throng of lesser
Salariki. Yes, there was at least one carrying chair—and
also an orgel from the back of which a veiled noblewoman was being
assisted to dismount by two retainers. The women of the clans were
coming—which could mean only that trade was at last in
progress. But trade for what?
Dane strode down the ramp. He saw Paft, his hand carefully
covered by his trade cloth, advance to Van Rycke, whose own fingers
were decently veiled by a handkerchief. Under the folds of fabric
their hands touched. The bargaining was in the first stages. And it
was important enough for the clan leaders to conduct themselves.
Where, according to Cam’s records, it had been usual to
delegate that power to a favored liege man.
Catching the light from the ship’s beam and from the
softer flares of the Salariki torches was a small pile of stones
resting on a stool to one side. Dane drew a deep breath. He had
heard the Koros stones described, had seen the tri-dee print of one
found among Cam’s recordings but the reality was beyond his
expectations. He knew the technical analysis of the gems—that
they were, as the amber of Terra, the fossilized resin exuded by
ancient plants (maybe the ancestors of the grass trees) long buried
in the saline deposits of the shallow seas where chemical changes
had taken place to produce the wonder jewels. In color they shaded
from a rosy apricot to a rich mauve, but in their depths other colors,
silver, fiery gold, spun sparks which seemed to move as the gem was
turned. And—which was what first endeared them to the
Salariki—when worn against the skin and warmed by body heat
they gave off a perfume which enchanted not only the Sargolian
natives but all in the Galaxy wealthy enough to own one.
On another stool placed at Van Rycke’s right hand, as that
bearing the Koros stones was at Paft’s, was a transparent
plastic box containing some wrinkled brownish leaves. Dane moved as
unobtrusively as he could to his proper place at such a trading
session, behind Van Rycke. More Salariki were tramping out of the
forest, torch bearing retainers and cloaked warriors. A little to
one side was a third party Dane had not seen before.
They were clustered about a staff which had been driven into the
ground, a staff topped with a white streamer marking a temporary
trading ground. These were Salariki right enough but they did not
wear the colorful garb of those about them, instead they were all
clad alike in muffling, sleeved robes of a drab green—the
storm priests—their robes denoting the color of the Sargolian
sky just before the onslaught of their worst tempests. Cam had not
left many clues concerning the religion of the Salariki, but the
storm priests had, in narrowly defined limits, power, and their
recognition of the Terran Traders would add to good feeling.
In the knot of storm priests a Terran stood—Medic
Tau—and he was talking earnestly with the leader of the
religious party. Dane would have given much to have been free to
cross and ask Tau a question or two. Was all this assembly the
result of the discovery in the hydro? But even as he asked himself
that, the trade cloths were shaken from the hands of the bargainers
and Van Rycke gave an order over his shoulder.
“Measure out two spoonsful of the dried leaves into a box—” he pointed to a tiny plastic container.
With painstaking care Dane followed directions. At the same time a servant of the Salarik chief swept the handful of
gems from the other stool and dropped them in a heap before Van
Rycke, who transferred them to a strong box resting between his
feet. Paft arose—but he had hardly quitted the trading seat
before one of the lesser clan leaders had taken his place, the
bargaining cloth ready looped loosely about his wrist.
It was at that point that the proceedings were interrupted. A
new party came into the open, their utilitarian Trade tunics making
a drab blot as they threaded their way in a compact group through
the throng of Salariki. I-S men! So they had not lifted from
Sargol.
They showed no signs of uneasiness—it was as if
their rights were being infringed by the Free Traders. And
Kallee, their Cargo-master, swaggered straight to the bargaining
point. The chatter of Salariki voices was stilled, the Sargolians
withdrew a little, letting one party of Terrans face the other,
sensing drama to come. Neither Van Rycke nor Jellico spoke, it was
left to Kallee to state his case.
“You’ve crooked your orbit this time, bright
boys,” his jeer was a pean of triumph. “Code
Three—Article six—or can’t you absorb rules tapes
with you thick heads?”
Code Three—Article six, Dane searched his memory for that
law of the Service. The words flashed into his mind as the
auto-learner had planted them during his first year of training
back in the Pool.
“To no alien race shall any Trader introduce any drug,
food, or drink from off world, until such a substance has been
certified as nonharmful to the aliens.’”
There it was! I-S had them and it was all his fault. But if he
had been so wrong, why in the world did Van Rycke sit there
trading, condoning the error and making it into a crime for which
they could be summoned before the Board and struck off the rolls of
the Service?
Van Rycke smiled gently. “Code Four—Article
two,” he quoted with the genial air of one playing gift-giver
at a Forkidan feasting.
Code Four, Article two: Any organic substance offered for trade must be examined by a committee of trained medical
experts, an equal representation of Terrans and aliens.
Kallee’s sneering smile did not vanish.
“Well,” he challenged, “where’s your board
of experts?”
“Tau!” Van Rycke called to the Medic with the storm
priests. “Will you ask your colleague to be so kind as to
allow the Cargo-master Kallee to be presented?”
The tall, dark young Terran Medic spoke to the priest beside him
and together they came across the clearing. Van Rycke and Jellico
both arose and inclined their heads in honor to the priests, as did
the chief with whom they had been about to deal.
“Reader of clouds and master of many winds,”
Tau’s voice flowed with the many voweled titles of the
Sargolian, “may I bring before your face Cargo-master Kallee,
a servant of Inter-Solar in the realm of Trade?”
The storm priest’s shaven skull and body gleamed steel
gray in the light. His eyes, of that startling blue-green, regarded
the I-S party with cynical detachment.
“You wish of me?” Plainly he was one who believed in
getting down to essentials at once.
Kallee could not be overawed. “These Free Traders have
introduced among your people a powerful drug which will bring much
evil,” he spoke slowly in simple words as if he were
addressing a cub.
“You have evidence of such evil?” countered the
storm priest. “In what manner is this new plant
evil?”
For a moment Kallee was disconcerted. But he rallied quickly.
“It has not been tested—you do not know how it will
affect your people—”
The storm priest shook his head impatiently. “We are not
lacking in intelligence, Trader. This plant has been
tested, both by your master of life secrets and ours. There is no
harm in it—rather it is a good thing, to be highly
prized—so highly that we shall give thanks that it was
brought unto us. This speech-together is finished.” He pulled the loose
folds of his robe closer about him and walked away.
“Now,” Van Rycke addressed the I-S party, “I
must ask you to withdraw. Under the rules of Trade your presence
here can be actively resented—”
But Kallee had lost little of his assurance. “You
haven’t heard the last of this. A tape of the whole
proceedings goes to the Board—”
“As you wish. But in the meantime—” Van Rycke
gestured to the waiting Salariki who were beginning to mutter
impatiently. Kallee glanced around, heard those mutters, and made
the only move possible, away from the Queen. He was not quite so
cocky, but neither had he surrendered.
Dane caught at Tau’s sleeve and asked the question which
had been burning in him since he had come upon the scene.
“What happened—about the catnip?”
There was lightening of the serious expression on Tau’s
face.
“Fortunately for you that child took the leaves to the
storm priest. They tested and approved it. And I can’t see
that it has any ill effects. But you were just lucky,
Thorson—it might have gone another way.”
Dane sighed. “I know that, sir,” he confessed.
“I’m not trying to rocket out—”
Tau gave a half-smile. “We all off-fire our tubes at
times,” he conceded. “Only next time—”
He did not need to complete that warning as Dane caught him
up:
“There isn’t going to be a next time like this,
sir—ever!”