THE MORNING WINDS rustled through the grass
forest and, closer to hand, it pulled at the cloaks of the
Salariki. Clan nobles sat on stools, lesser folk squatted on the
trampled stubble of the cleared ground outside the stockade. In
their many colored splendor the drab tunics of the Terrans were a
blot of darkness at either end of the makeshift arena which had
been marked out for them.
At the conclusion of their conference the Queen’s men had
been forced into a course Jellico had urged from the first. He, and
he alone, would represent the Free Traders in the coming duel. And
now he stood there in the early morning, stripped down to shorts
and boots, wearing nothing on which a net could catch and so trap
him. The Free Traders were certain that the I-S men having any
advantage would press it to the ultimate limit, and the death of
Captain Jellico would make a great impression on the Salariki.
Jellico was taller than the Eysie who faced him, but almost as
lean. Hard muscles moved under his skin, pale where space tan had
not burned in the years of his star voyaging. And his every movement was with the liquid grace of a man who, in his
time, had been a master of the force blade. Now he gripped in his
left hand the claw knife given him by Groft himself and in the
other he looped the throwing rope of the net.
At the other end of the field, the Eysie man was industriously
moving his bootsoles back and forth across the ground, intent upon
coating them with as much of the gritty sand as would adhere. And
he displayed the supreme confidence in himself which he had shown
at the moment of challenge in the Great Hall.
None of the Free Trading party made the mistake of trying to
give Jellico advice. The Captain had not risen to his command
without learning his duties. And the duties of a Free Trader
covered a wide range of knowledge and practice. One had to be
equally expert with a blaster and a slingshot when the occasion
demanded. Though Jellico had not fought a Salariki duel with net
and knife before, he had a deep memory of other weapons, other
tactics which could be drawn upon and adapted to his present
need.
There was none of the casual atmosphere which had surrounded the
affair between the Salariki clansmen in the hall. Here was
ceremony. The storm priests invoked their own particular grim
Providence, and there was an oath taken over the weapons of battle.
When the actual engagement began the betting among the spectators
had reached, Dane decided, epic proportions. Large sections of
Sargolian personal property were due to change hands as a result of
this encounter.
As the chief priest gave the order to engage both Terrans
advanced from their respective ends of the fighting space with the
half crouching, light footed tread of spacemen. Jellico had pulled
his net into as close a resemblance to rope as its bulk would
allow. The very type of weapon, so far removed from any the Traders
knew, made it a disadvantage rather than an asset.
But it was when the Eysie moved out to meet the Captain that Rip’s fingers closed about Dane’s upper arm in
an almost paralyzing grip.
“He knows—”
Dane had not needed that bad news to be made vocal. Having seen
the exploits of the Salariki duelists earlier, he had already
caught the significance of that glide, of the way the I-S champion
carried his net. The Eysie had not had any last minute instruction
in the use of Sargolian weapons—he had practiced and, by his
stance, knew enough to make him a formidable menace. The clamor
about the Queen’s party rose as the battle-wise eyes of the
clansmen noted that and the odds against Jellico reached fantastic
heights while the hearts of his crew sank.
Only Van Rycke was not disturbed. Now and then he raised his
smelling bottle to his nose with an elegant gesture which matched
those of the befurred nobility around him, as if not a thought of
care ruffled his mind.
The Eysie feinted in an opening which was a rather ragged copy
of the young Salarik’s more fluid moves some hours before.
But, when the net settled, Jellico was simply not there, his quick
drop to one knee had sent the mesh flailing in an arc over his
bowed shoulders with a good six inches to spare. And a cry of
approval came not only from his comrades, but from those natives
who had been gamblers enough to venture their wagers on his
performance.
Dane watched the field and the fighters through a watery film.
The discomfort he had experienced since downing that mouthful of
the cup of friendship had tightened into a fist of pain clutching
his middle in a torturing grip. But he knew he must stick it out
until Jellico’s ordeal was over. Someone stumbled against him
and he glanced up to see Ali’s face, a horrible gray-green
under the tan, close to his own. For a moment the
Engineer-apprentice caught at his arm for support and then with a
visible effort straightened up. So he wasn’t the only
one—He looked for Rip and Weeks and saw that they, too, were
ill.
But for the moment all that mattered was the stretch of trampled earth and the two men facing each other. The Eysie made
another cast and this time, although Jellico was not caught, the
slap of the mesh raised a red welt on his forearm. So far the
Captain had been content to play the defensive role of retreat,
studying his enemy, planning ahead.
The Eysie plainly thought the game his, that he had only to wait
for a favorable moment and cinch the victory. Dane began to think
it had gone on for weary hours. And he was dimly aware that the
Salariki were also restless. One or two shouted angrily at Jellico
in their own tongue.
The end came suddenly. Jellico lost his footing, stumbled, and
went down. But before his men could move, the Eysie champion
bounded forward, his net whirling out. Only he never reached the
Captain. In the very act of falling Jellico had pulled his legs
under him so that he was not supine but crouched, and his net swept
out at ground level, clipping the I-S man about the shins,
entangling his feet so that he crashed heavily to the sod and lay
still.
“The whip—that Lalox whip trick!”
Wilcox’s voice rose triumphantly above the babble of the
crowd. Using his net as if it had been a thong, Jellico had brought
down the Eysie with a move the other had not foreseen.
Breathing hard, sweat running down his shoulders and making
tracks through the powdery red dust which streaked him, Jellico got
to his feet and walked over to the I-S champion who had not moved
or made a sound since his fall. The Captain went down on one knee
to examine him.
“Kill! Kill!” That was the Salariki, all their
instinctive savagery aroused.
But Jellico spoke to Groft. “By our customs we do not kill
the conquered. Let his friends bear him hence.” He took the
claw knife the Eysie still clutched in his hand and thrust it into
his own belt. Then he faced the I-S party and Kallee.
“Take your man and get out!” The rein he had kept on
his temper these past days was growing very thin.
“You’ve made your last play here.”
Kallee’s thick lips drew back in something close to a
Salarik snarl. But neither he nor his men made any reply. They bundled
up their unconscious fighter and disappeared.
Of their own return to the sanctuary of the Queen Dane had only
the dimmest of memories afterwards. He had made the privacy of the
forest road before he yielded to the demands of his outraged
interior. And after that he had stumbled along with Van
Rycke’s hand under his arm, knowing from other miserable
sounds that he was not alone in his torment.
It was some time later, months he thought when he first roused,
that he found himself lying in his bunk, feeling very weak and
empty as if a large section of his middle had been removed, but
also at peace with his world. As he levered himself up the cabin
had a nasty tendency to move slowly to the right as if he were a
pivot on which it swung, and he had all the sensations of being in
free fall though the Queen was still firmly planeted. But that was
only a minor discomfort compared to the disturbance he
remembered.
Fed the semi-liquid diet prescribed by Tau and served up by Mura
to him and his fellow sufferers, he speedily got back his strength.
But it had been a close call, he did not need Tau’s
explanation to underline that. Weeks had suffered the least of the
four, he the most—though none of them had had an easy time.
And they had been out of circulation three days.
“The Eysie blasted last night,” Rip informed him as
they lounged in the sun on the ramp, sharing the blessed lazy hours
of invalidism.
But somehow that news gave Dane no lift of spirit. “I
didn’t think they’d give up—”
Rip shrugged. “They may be off to make a dust-off before
the Board. Only, thanks to Van and the Old Man, we’re covered
all along the line. There’s nothing they can use against us
to break our contract. And now we’re in so solid they
can’t cut us out with the Salariki. Groft asked the Captain
to teach him that trick with the net. I didn’t know the Old
Man knew Lalox whip fighting—it’s about one of the
nastiest ways to get cut to pieces in this
universe—”
”How’s trade going?”
Rip’s sunniness clouded. “Supplies have given out.
Weeks had an idea—but it won’t bring in Koros. That red
wood he’s so mad about, he’s persuaded Van to stow some
in the cargo holds since we have enough Koros stones to cover the
voyage. Luckily the clansmen will take ordinary trade goods in
exchange for that and Weeks thinks it will sell on Terra.
It’s tough enough to turn a steel knife blade and yet it is
light and easy to handle when it’s cured. Queer stuff and the
color’s interesting. That stockade of it planted around
Groft’s town has been up close to a hundred years and not a
sign of rot in a log of it!”
“Where is Van?”
“The storm priests sent for him. Some kind of a
gabble-fest on the star-star level, I gather. Otherwise we’re
almost ready to blast. And we know what kind of cargo to bring next
time.”
They certainly did, Dane agreed. But he was not to idle away his
morning. An hour later a caravan came out of the forest, a line of
complaining, burdened orgels, their tiny heads hanging low as they
moaned their woes, the hard life which sent them on their sluggish
way with piles of red logs lashed to their broad toads’
backs. Weeks was in charge of the procession and Dane went to work
with the cargo plan Van had left, seeing that the brilliant scarlet
lengths were hoist into the lower cargo hatch and stacked according
to the science of stowage. He discovered that Rip had been right,
the wood for all its incredible hardness was light of weight. Weak
as he still was he could lift and stow a full sized log with no
great difficulty. And he thought Weeks was correct in thinking that
it would sell on their home world. The color was novel, the
durability an asset—it would not make fortunes as the Koros stones
might, but every bit of profit helped and this cargo might cover
their fielding fees on Terra.
Sinbad was in the cargo space when the first of the logs came
in. With his usual curiosity the striped tomcat prowled along the
wood, sniffing industriously. Suddenly he stopped short, spat and
backed away, his spine fur a roughened crest. Having backed as far as the inner door he turned and slunk out.
Puzzled, Dane gave the wood a swift inspection. There were no
cracks or crevices in the smooth surfaces, but as he stopped over
the logs he became conscious of a sharp odor. So this was one scent
of the perfumed planet Sinbad did not like. Dane laughed. Maybe
they had better have Weeks make a gate of the stuff and slip it
across the ramp, keeping Sinbad on ship board. Odd—it
wasn’t an unpleasant odor—at least to him it
wasn’t—just sharp and pungent. He sniffed again and was
vaguely surprised to discover that it was less noticeable now.
Perhaps the wood when taken out of the sunlight lost its scent.
They packed the lower hold solid in accordance with the rules of
stowage and locked the hatch before Van Rycke returned from his
meeting with the storm priests. When the Cargo-master came back he
was followed by two servants bearing between them a chest.
But there was something in Van Rycke’s attitude, apparent
to those who knew him best, that proclaimed he was not too well
pleased with his morning’s work. Sparing the feelings of the
accompanying storm priests about the offensiveness of the spacer,
Captain Jellico and Steen Wilcox went out to receive them in the
open. Dane watched from the hatch, aware that in his present
pariah-hood it would not be wise to venture closer.
The Terran Traders were protesting some course of action that
the Salariki were firmly insistent upon. In the end the natives won
and Kosti was summoned to carry on board the chest which the
servants had brought. Having seen it carried safely inside the
spacer, the aliens departed, but Van Rycke was frowning and
Jellico’s fingers were beating a tattoo on his belt as they
came up the ramp.
“I don’t like it,” Jellico stated as he
entered.
“It was none of my doing,” Van Rycke snapped.
“I’ll take risks if I have to—but there’s
something about this one—” he broke off, two deep lines
showing between his thick brows. ”Well, you can’t teach a sasseral to spit,” he
ended philosophically. “We’ll have to do the best we
can.”
But Jellico did not look at all happy as he climbed to the
control section. And before the hour was out, the reason for the
Captain’s uneasiness was common property throughout the
ship.
Having sampled the delights of off-world herbs, the Salariki
were determined to not be cut off from their source of supply. Six
Terran months from the present Sargolian date would come the great
yearly feast of the Fifty Storms, and the priests were agreed that
this year their influence and power would be doubled if they could
offer the devout certain privileges in the form of Terran plants.
Consequently they had produced and forced upon the reluctant Van
Rycke the Koros collection of their order, with instructions that
it be sold on Terra and the price returned to them in the precious
seeds and plants. In vain the Cargo-master and Captain had pointed
out that Galactic trade was a chancy thing at the best, that
accident might prevent return of the Queen to Sargol. But the
priests had remained adamant and saw in all such arguments only a
devious attempt to raise prices. They quoted in their turn the
information they had levered out of the Company men—that
Traders had their code and that once pay had been given in advance
the contract must be fulfilled. They, and they alone,
wanted the full cargo of the Queen on her next voyage, and they
were taking the one way they were sure of achieving that
result.
So a fortune in Koros stones which as yet did not rightfully
belong to the Traders was now in the Queen’s strong-room and
her crew were pledged by the strongest possible tie known in their
Service to set down on Sargol once more before the allotted time
had passed. The Free Traders did not like it, there was even a
vaguely superstitious feeling that such a bargain would inevitably
draw ill luck to them. But they were left with no choice if they
wanted to retain their influence with the Salariki.
“Cutting orbit pretty fine, aren’t we?” Ali
asked Rip across the mess table. “I saw your two star man sweating it out
before he came down to shoot the breeze with us rocket
monkeys—”
Rip nodded. “Steen’s double checked every
computation and some he’s done four times.” He ran his
hands over his close cropped head with a weary gesture. As a
semi-invalid he had been herded down with his fellows to swallow
the builder Mura had concocted and Tau insisted that they take,
but he had been doing half a night’s work on the plotter
under his chief’s exacting eye before he came. “The
latest news is that, barring accident, we can make it with about
three weeks’ grace, give or take a day or
two—”
“Barring accident—” the words rang in the air.
Here on the frontiers of the star lanes there were so many
accidents, so many delays which could put a ship behind schedule.
Only on the main star trails did the huge liners or Company ships
attempt to keep on regularly timed trips. A Free Trader did not
really dare to have an inelastic contract.
“What does Stotz say?” Dane asked Ali.
“He says he can deliver. We don’t have the headache
about setting a course—you point the nose and we only give
her the boost to send her along.”
Rip sighed. “Yes—point her nose.” He inspected
his nails. “Goodbye,” he added gravely. “These
won’t be here by the time we planet here again. I’ll
have my fingers gnawed off to the first knuckle. Well, we lift at
six hours. Pleasant strap down.” He drank the last of the
stuff in his mug, made a face at the flavor, and got to his feet,
due back at his post in control.
Dane, free of duty until the ship earthed, drifted back to his
own cabin, sure of part of a night’s undisturbed rest before
they blasted off. Sinbad was curled on his bunk. For some reason
the cat had not been prowling the ship before take-off as he
usually did. First he had sat on Van’s desk and now he was
here, almost as if he wanted human company. Dane picked him up and
Sinbad rumbled a purr, arching his head so that it rubbed against
the young man’s chin in an extremely uncharacteristic show of affection. Smoothing the fur
along the cat’s jaw line Dane carried him back to the
Cargo-master’s cabin.
With some hesitation he knocked at the panel and did not step in
until he had Van Rycke’s muffled invitation. The Cargo-master
was stretched on the bunk, two of the take off straps already
fastened across his bulk as if he intended to sleep through the
blast-off.
“Sinbad, sir. Shall I stow him?”
Van Rycke grunted an assent and Dane dropped the cat in the
small hammock which was his particular station, fastening the
safety cords. For once Sinbad made no protest but rolled into a
ball and was promptly fast asleep. For a moment or two Dane thought
about this unnatural behavior and wondered if he should call it to
the Cargo-master’s attention. Perhaps on Sargol Sinbad had
had his equivalent of a friendship cup and needed a
check-up by Tau.
“Stowage correct?” the question, coming from Van
Rycke, was also unusual. The seal would not have been put across
the hold lock had its contents not been checked and re-checked.
“Yes, sir,” Dane replied woodenly, knowing he was
still in the outer darkness. “There was just the
wood—we stowed it according to chart.”
Van Rycke grunted once more. “Feeling top layer
again?”
“Yes, sir. Any orders, sir?”
“No. Blast-off’s at six.”
“Yes, sir.” Dane left the cabin, closing the panel
carefully behind him. Would he—or could he—he thought
drearily, get back in Van Rycke’s profit column again? Sargol
had been unlucky as far as he was concerned. First he had made that
stupid mistake and then he got sick and now—And
now—what was the matter? Was it just the general
attack of nerves over their voyage and the commitments which forced
their haste, or was it something else? He could not rid himself of
a vague sense that the Queen was about to take off into real
trouble. And he did not like the sensation at all!
THE MORNING WINDS rustled through the grass
forest and, closer to hand, it pulled at the cloaks of the
Salariki. Clan nobles sat on stools, lesser folk squatted on the
trampled stubble of the cleared ground outside the stockade. In
their many colored splendor the drab tunics of the Terrans were a
blot of darkness at either end of the makeshift arena which had
been marked out for them.
At the conclusion of their conference the Queen’s men had
been forced into a course Jellico had urged from the first. He, and
he alone, would represent the Free Traders in the coming duel. And
now he stood there in the early morning, stripped down to shorts
and boots, wearing nothing on which a net could catch and so trap
him. The Free Traders were certain that the I-S men having any
advantage would press it to the ultimate limit, and the death of
Captain Jellico would make a great impression on the Salariki.
Jellico was taller than the Eysie who faced him, but almost as
lean. Hard muscles moved under his skin, pale where space tan had
not burned in the years of his star voyaging. And his every movement was with the liquid grace of a man who, in his
time, had been a master of the force blade. Now he gripped in his
left hand the claw knife given him by Groft himself and in the
other he looped the throwing rope of the net.
At the other end of the field, the Eysie man was industriously
moving his bootsoles back and forth across the ground, intent upon
coating them with as much of the gritty sand as would adhere. And
he displayed the supreme confidence in himself which he had shown
at the moment of challenge in the Great Hall.
None of the Free Trading party made the mistake of trying to
give Jellico advice. The Captain had not risen to his command
without learning his duties. And the duties of a Free Trader
covered a wide range of knowledge and practice. One had to be
equally expert with a blaster and a slingshot when the occasion
demanded. Though Jellico had not fought a Salariki duel with net
and knife before, he had a deep memory of other weapons, other
tactics which could be drawn upon and adapted to his present
need.
There was none of the casual atmosphere which had surrounded the
affair between the Salariki clansmen in the hall. Here was
ceremony. The storm priests invoked their own particular grim
Providence, and there was an oath taken over the weapons of battle.
When the actual engagement began the betting among the spectators
had reached, Dane decided, epic proportions. Large sections of
Sargolian personal property were due to change hands as a result of
this encounter.
As the chief priest gave the order to engage both Terrans
advanced from their respective ends of the fighting space with the
half crouching, light footed tread of spacemen. Jellico had pulled
his net into as close a resemblance to rope as its bulk would
allow. The very type of weapon, so far removed from any the Traders
knew, made it a disadvantage rather than an asset.
But it was when the Eysie moved out to meet the Captain that Rip’s fingers closed about Dane’s upper arm in
an almost paralyzing grip.
“He knows—”
Dane had not needed that bad news to be made vocal. Having seen
the exploits of the Salariki duelists earlier, he had already
caught the significance of that glide, of the way the I-S champion
carried his net. The Eysie had not had any last minute instruction
in the use of Sargolian weapons—he had practiced and, by his
stance, knew enough to make him a formidable menace. The clamor
about the Queen’s party rose as the battle-wise eyes of the
clansmen noted that and the odds against Jellico reached fantastic
heights while the hearts of his crew sank.
Only Van Rycke was not disturbed. Now and then he raised his
smelling bottle to his nose with an elegant gesture which matched
those of the befurred nobility around him, as if not a thought of
care ruffled his mind.
The Eysie feinted in an opening which was a rather ragged copy
of the young Salarik’s more fluid moves some hours before.
But, when the net settled, Jellico was simply not there, his quick
drop to one knee had sent the mesh flailing in an arc over his
bowed shoulders with a good six inches to spare. And a cry of
approval came not only from his comrades, but from those natives
who had been gamblers enough to venture their wagers on his
performance.
Dane watched the field and the fighters through a watery film.
The discomfort he had experienced since downing that mouthful of
the cup of friendship had tightened into a fist of pain clutching
his middle in a torturing grip. But he knew he must stick it out
until Jellico’s ordeal was over. Someone stumbled against him
and he glanced up to see Ali’s face, a horrible gray-green
under the tan, close to his own. For a moment the
Engineer-apprentice caught at his arm for support and then with a
visible effort straightened up. So he wasn’t the only
one—He looked for Rip and Weeks and saw that they, too, were
ill.
But for the moment all that mattered was the stretch of trampled earth and the two men facing each other. The Eysie made
another cast and this time, although Jellico was not caught, the
slap of the mesh raised a red welt on his forearm. So far the
Captain had been content to play the defensive role of retreat,
studying his enemy, planning ahead.
The Eysie plainly thought the game his, that he had only to wait
for a favorable moment and cinch the victory. Dane began to think
it had gone on for weary hours. And he was dimly aware that the
Salariki were also restless. One or two shouted angrily at Jellico
in their own tongue.
The end came suddenly. Jellico lost his footing, stumbled, and
went down. But before his men could move, the Eysie champion
bounded forward, his net whirling out. Only he never reached the
Captain. In the very act of falling Jellico had pulled his legs
under him so that he was not supine but crouched, and his net swept
out at ground level, clipping the I-S man about the shins,
entangling his feet so that he crashed heavily to the sod and lay
still.
“The whip—that Lalox whip trick!”
Wilcox’s voice rose triumphantly above the babble of the
crowd. Using his net as if it had been a thong, Jellico had brought
down the Eysie with a move the other had not foreseen.
Breathing hard, sweat running down his shoulders and making
tracks through the powdery red dust which streaked him, Jellico got
to his feet and walked over to the I-S champion who had not moved
or made a sound since his fall. The Captain went down on one knee
to examine him.
“Kill! Kill!” That was the Salariki, all their
instinctive savagery aroused.
But Jellico spoke to Groft. “By our customs we do not kill
the conquered. Let his friends bear him hence.” He took the
claw knife the Eysie still clutched in his hand and thrust it into
his own belt. Then he faced the I-S party and Kallee.
“Take your man and get out!” The rein he had kept on
his temper these past days was growing very thin.
“You’ve made your last play here.”
Kallee’s thick lips drew back in something close to a
Salarik snarl. But neither he nor his men made any reply. They bundled
up their unconscious fighter and disappeared.
Of their own return to the sanctuary of the Queen Dane had only
the dimmest of memories afterwards. He had made the privacy of the
forest road before he yielded to the demands of his outraged
interior. And after that he had stumbled along with Van
Rycke’s hand under his arm, knowing from other miserable
sounds that he was not alone in his torment.
It was some time later, months he thought when he first roused,
that he found himself lying in his bunk, feeling very weak and
empty as if a large section of his middle had been removed, but
also at peace with his world. As he levered himself up the cabin
had a nasty tendency to move slowly to the right as if he were a
pivot on which it swung, and he had all the sensations of being in
free fall though the Queen was still firmly planeted. But that was
only a minor discomfort compared to the disturbance he
remembered.
Fed the semi-liquid diet prescribed by Tau and served up by Mura
to him and his fellow sufferers, he speedily got back his strength.
But it had been a close call, he did not need Tau’s
explanation to underline that. Weeks had suffered the least of the
four, he the most—though none of them had had an easy time.
And they had been out of circulation three days.
“The Eysie blasted last night,” Rip informed him as
they lounged in the sun on the ramp, sharing the blessed lazy hours
of invalidism.
But somehow that news gave Dane no lift of spirit. “I
didn’t think they’d give up—”
Rip shrugged. “They may be off to make a dust-off before
the Board. Only, thanks to Van and the Old Man, we’re covered
all along the line. There’s nothing they can use against us
to break our contract. And now we’re in so solid they
can’t cut us out with the Salariki. Groft asked the Captain
to teach him that trick with the net. I didn’t know the Old
Man knew Lalox whip fighting—it’s about one of the
nastiest ways to get cut to pieces in this
universe—”
”How’s trade going?”
Rip’s sunniness clouded. “Supplies have given out.
Weeks had an idea—but it won’t bring in Koros. That red
wood he’s so mad about, he’s persuaded Van to stow some
in the cargo holds since we have enough Koros stones to cover the
voyage. Luckily the clansmen will take ordinary trade goods in
exchange for that and Weeks thinks it will sell on Terra.
It’s tough enough to turn a steel knife blade and yet it is
light and easy to handle when it’s cured. Queer stuff and the
color’s interesting. That stockade of it planted around
Groft’s town has been up close to a hundred years and not a
sign of rot in a log of it!”
“Where is Van?”
“The storm priests sent for him. Some kind of a
gabble-fest on the star-star level, I gather. Otherwise we’re
almost ready to blast. And we know what kind of cargo to bring next
time.”
They certainly did, Dane agreed. But he was not to idle away his
morning. An hour later a caravan came out of the forest, a line of
complaining, burdened orgels, their tiny heads hanging low as they
moaned their woes, the hard life which sent them on their sluggish
way with piles of red logs lashed to their broad toads’
backs. Weeks was in charge of the procession and Dane went to work
with the cargo plan Van had left, seeing that the brilliant scarlet
lengths were hoist into the lower cargo hatch and stacked according
to the science of stowage. He discovered that Rip had been right,
the wood for all its incredible hardness was light of weight. Weak
as he still was he could lift and stow a full sized log with no
great difficulty. And he thought Weeks was correct in thinking that
it would sell on their home world. The color was novel, the
durability an asset—it would not make fortunes as the Koros stones
might, but every bit of profit helped and this cargo might cover
their fielding fees on Terra.
Sinbad was in the cargo space when the first of the logs came
in. With his usual curiosity the striped tomcat prowled along the
wood, sniffing industriously. Suddenly he stopped short, spat and
backed away, his spine fur a roughened crest. Having backed as far as the inner door he turned and slunk out.
Puzzled, Dane gave the wood a swift inspection. There were no
cracks or crevices in the smooth surfaces, but as he stopped over
the logs he became conscious of a sharp odor. So this was one scent
of the perfumed planet Sinbad did not like. Dane laughed. Maybe
they had better have Weeks make a gate of the stuff and slip it
across the ramp, keeping Sinbad on ship board. Odd—it
wasn’t an unpleasant odor—at least to him it
wasn’t—just sharp and pungent. He sniffed again and was
vaguely surprised to discover that it was less noticeable now.
Perhaps the wood when taken out of the sunlight lost its scent.
They packed the lower hold solid in accordance with the rules of
stowage and locked the hatch before Van Rycke returned from his
meeting with the storm priests. When the Cargo-master came back he
was followed by two servants bearing between them a chest.
But there was something in Van Rycke’s attitude, apparent
to those who knew him best, that proclaimed he was not too well
pleased with his morning’s work. Sparing the feelings of the
accompanying storm priests about the offensiveness of the spacer,
Captain Jellico and Steen Wilcox went out to receive them in the
open. Dane watched from the hatch, aware that in his present
pariah-hood it would not be wise to venture closer.
The Terran Traders were protesting some course of action that
the Salariki were firmly insistent upon. In the end the natives won
and Kosti was summoned to carry on board the chest which the
servants had brought. Having seen it carried safely inside the
spacer, the aliens departed, but Van Rycke was frowning and
Jellico’s fingers were beating a tattoo on his belt as they
came up the ramp.
“I don’t like it,” Jellico stated as he
entered.
“It was none of my doing,” Van Rycke snapped.
“I’ll take risks if I have to—but there’s
something about this one—” he broke off, two deep lines
showing between his thick brows. ”Well, you can’t teach a sasseral to spit,” he
ended philosophically. “We’ll have to do the best we
can.”
But Jellico did not look at all happy as he climbed to the
control section. And before the hour was out, the reason for the
Captain’s uneasiness was common property throughout the
ship.
Having sampled the delights of off-world herbs, the Salariki
were determined to not be cut off from their source of supply. Six
Terran months from the present Sargolian date would come the great
yearly feast of the Fifty Storms, and the priests were agreed that
this year their influence and power would be doubled if they could
offer the devout certain privileges in the form of Terran plants.
Consequently they had produced and forced upon the reluctant Van
Rycke the Koros collection of their order, with instructions that
it be sold on Terra and the price returned to them in the precious
seeds and plants. In vain the Cargo-master and Captain had pointed
out that Galactic trade was a chancy thing at the best, that
accident might prevent return of the Queen to Sargol. But the
priests had remained adamant and saw in all such arguments only a
devious attempt to raise prices. They quoted in their turn the
information they had levered out of the Company men—that
Traders had their code and that once pay had been given in advance
the contract must be fulfilled. They, and they alone,
wanted the full cargo of the Queen on her next voyage, and they
were taking the one way they were sure of achieving that
result.
So a fortune in Koros stones which as yet did not rightfully
belong to the Traders was now in the Queen’s strong-room and
her crew were pledged by the strongest possible tie known in their
Service to set down on Sargol once more before the allotted time
had passed. The Free Traders did not like it, there was even a
vaguely superstitious feeling that such a bargain would inevitably
draw ill luck to them. But they were left with no choice if they
wanted to retain their influence with the Salariki.
“Cutting orbit pretty fine, aren’t we?” Ali
asked Rip across the mess table. “I saw your two star man sweating it out
before he came down to shoot the breeze with us rocket
monkeys—”
Rip nodded. “Steen’s double checked every
computation and some he’s done four times.” He ran his
hands over his close cropped head with a weary gesture. As a
semi-invalid he had been herded down with his fellows to swallow
the builder Mura had concocted and Tau insisted that they take,
but he had been doing half a night’s work on the plotter
under his chief’s exacting eye before he came. “The
latest news is that, barring accident, we can make it with about
three weeks’ grace, give or take a day or
two—”
“Barring accident—” the words rang in the air.
Here on the frontiers of the star lanes there were so many
accidents, so many delays which could put a ship behind schedule.
Only on the main star trails did the huge liners or Company ships
attempt to keep on regularly timed trips. A Free Trader did not
really dare to have an inelastic contract.
“What does Stotz say?” Dane asked Ali.
“He says he can deliver. We don’t have the headache
about setting a course—you point the nose and we only give
her the boost to send her along.”
Rip sighed. “Yes—point her nose.” He inspected
his nails. “Goodbye,” he added gravely. “These
won’t be here by the time we planet here again. I’ll
have my fingers gnawed off to the first knuckle. Well, we lift at
six hours. Pleasant strap down.” He drank the last of the
stuff in his mug, made a face at the flavor, and got to his feet,
due back at his post in control.
Dane, free of duty until the ship earthed, drifted back to his
own cabin, sure of part of a night’s undisturbed rest before
they blasted off. Sinbad was curled on his bunk. For some reason
the cat had not been prowling the ship before take-off as he
usually did. First he had sat on Van’s desk and now he was
here, almost as if he wanted human company. Dane picked him up and
Sinbad rumbled a purr, arching his head so that it rubbed against
the young man’s chin in an extremely uncharacteristic show of affection. Smoothing the fur
along the cat’s jaw line Dane carried him back to the
Cargo-master’s cabin.
With some hesitation he knocked at the panel and did not step in
until he had Van Rycke’s muffled invitation. The Cargo-master
was stretched on the bunk, two of the take off straps already
fastened across his bulk as if he intended to sleep through the
blast-off.
“Sinbad, sir. Shall I stow him?”
Van Rycke grunted an assent and Dane dropped the cat in the
small hammock which was his particular station, fastening the
safety cords. For once Sinbad made no protest but rolled into a
ball and was promptly fast asleep. For a moment or two Dane thought
about this unnatural behavior and wondered if he should call it to
the Cargo-master’s attention. Perhaps on Sargol Sinbad had
had his equivalent of a friendship cup and needed a
check-up by Tau.
“Stowage correct?” the question, coming from Van
Rycke, was also unusual. The seal would not have been put across
the hold lock had its contents not been checked and re-checked.
“Yes, sir,” Dane replied woodenly, knowing he was
still in the outer darkness. “There was just the
wood—we stowed it according to chart.”
Van Rycke grunted once more. “Feeling top layer
again?”
“Yes, sir. Any orders, sir?”
“No. Blast-off’s at six.”
“Yes, sir.” Dane left the cabin, closing the panel
carefully behind him. Would he—or could he—he thought
drearily, get back in Van Rycke’s profit column again? Sargol
had been unlucky as far as he was concerned. First he had made that
stupid mistake and then he got sick and now—And
now—what was the matter? Was it just the general
attack of nerves over their voyage and the commitments which forced
their haste, or was it something else? He could not rid himself of
a vague sense that the Queen was about to take off into real
trouble. And he did not like the sensation at all!