Pluummuluum gestured that she had grasped the burst correctly.
She licked her dry, cracked lips and scrubbed at her cheeks, almost numb to the pressure of her fingers. “I don’t know if I can,” she said carefully, looking earnestly at its face though its eyes seemed not to see her. “I’m so exhausted I don’t know how I can. The shuttle trip made me sick.”
It touched her forehead.
“You say that food will help, and that you’ll order a stimulant if I think that will help. But that there can be no delay, because we must meet with a trader for negotiations in two and a half hours of the twenty-five-hour clock.” She spoke without affect, but on hearing the words spoken—and suddenly taking them in—she got jagged with anxiety. “But how can I meet with a trader?” she said. “You haven’t briefed me yet. And I know nothing about trading…”
Pluummuluum ordered food and water without acknowledging her questions. Azia flushed, feeling both mortified and resentful, and escaped into the hygiene facilities. The air there was thick with a visible mist of humidity. Recalling the humidity of its cabinet, she realized that the low humidity of both the shuttle and the space station must be uncomfortable for the Corolhan. And then she remembered how every time they’d visited stations, her mother would regularly slather her, Seth, and herself with lotion. There was no lotion in the facility. Of course not. Why would they provide lotion and other human amenities for a Corollian? She would have to ask Pluummuluum to order some for her. And mouth cleansers and all the usual items for respectable grooming. Trembling with exhaustion as she was, the very thought of having to attend to this made her feel as though she’d been slammed with an immobilizer. And to think she’d thought the bandwidth for communicating with the juvie-detention officers was excruciatingly narrow!
9.
Azia followed Pluummuluum into the negotiation space buoyed with the confidence of having (apparently) understood its detailed briefing with ease. She held her head high and made the ceremonial bows theatrically, with a sort of private glee, feeling like a child playing dress-up with grown-ups. “I’m Egon Barraclough, Registered Trader,” the clear head of the group said. “Representing Singh and Barraclough Enterprises.”
“And this is Pluummuluum, Registered Trader,” Azia said in a clear, steady voice (thinking that the whole scene really was like playing a part in a VRRPG). “It represents itself.” And I represent it—she did not say.
“Trader,” Trader Barraclough said respectfully, bowing again.
Pluummuluum bowed. “Trader,” Azia said, to reciprocate the courtesy, happily aware that Trader Barraclough hadn’t so much as glanced at her.
The negotiating space met the standard specs: it had the appropriate furniture for each species that situated them six feet apart and frontally facing. The walls and ceding, as per specs, played silent threedys provided by each side, Barraclough’s on his half of the room—directly in Azia’s and Pluummuluum’s lines of vision, and Pluummuluum’s on its side of the room—directly in the Barraclough contingent’s hnes of vision. Azia knelt near (but not touching) Pluummuluum because it was the prescribed position for a translator or adviser to a negotiating party, not because it was particularly likely that Pluummuluum would want her to Receive during the negotiation (though obviously, it might). She was elated at how easy it all seemed, how assured she felt—as though she knew her part, and that it was a part, and that it wasn’t really her doing business with these tough old men who’d normally eat someone like her for a midmorning snack.
The instructions Pluummuluum had given her were simple. Trader Barraclough wanted to acquire some “feathers.” Azia was to offer seven in exchange for certain architectural germ stocks, and to go as high as ten, and to offer three in exchange for a sample of the fifth strain of the Jasper Virus, which Azia suspected was a neural mod for humans, and to go as high as five. And finally, she was to see if Barraclough had any “lyric crystals.” If so, she was authorized to trade one for one, but not to bargain for them. The latter, it had told her, was a standing trade offer. It was always interested in acquiring lyric crystals (though not always prepared to trade “feathers” for them).
The negotiations began with Pluummuluum’s holding up a feather— while images of blissful humans holding feathers tumbled gently, serenely around them—and Azia’s saying, “My principal has feathers to trade.”
Trader Barraclough already knew what Pluummuluum wanted, but said only, “A worthy item of commerce, Trader, but surely beyond my means.” Azia felt bombarded by Barraclough’s images, which flashed, morphed, and melted with such speed she could not (consciously) distinguish any of them.
Though Pluummuluum had not provided her with the exact words to use, John Shea Velikovsky had made her memorize a couple of dozen rote expressions. She said, “My principal has feathers to trade. If feathers do not interest you, Trader, then you and it both waste time in a discussion that can only be fruitless.” Azia sensed Pluummuluum, behind her, moving in its seat, perhaps making a bow.
The velocity of the threedy images inhabiting Trader Barraclough’s half of the room grew positively frenetic. Azia was curious about what they might be, but did not allow her eyes to stray from the Trader’s ever-bland face. “Ah, Corollians,” he said. “I’ve long wondered how it is that none of you can be induced to bargain! Especially for your feathers. You know the galaxy covets them, and that they are your exclusive— shared—monopoly.” He shook his head, rather unconvincingly. “If humans had the will to maintain cartels with your effectiveness…” He shrugged and spread his hands palm down. “It is not a matter, Trader, of your feathers not interesting me. They interest me exceedingly. But I can’t imagine what I have to trade that you would find acceptable.”
Azia had been listening carefully, but she was beginning to feel dizzy and nauseated—by the distraction of the Trader’s images, she thought. Her mouth went dry in sudden panic as she struggled to find the appropriate response to the Trader’s blather. His cold, adult eyes waited—even now avoiding her face, looking somewhere over her head, presumably at her bonder. She had asked John Shea Velikovsky, when she realized she would be expected to speak for, rather than merely translate for, Pluummuluum, how anyone could expect her to understand the words-behind-the-words of negotiation without lengthy instruction and experience. She said, “The Trader knows my principal lacks any intuition for his humor. But it is pleased that he is interested in the goods it has to trade. It wonders if the Trader, in turn, has anything it is interested in.”
“That is the question, certainly,” said Trader Barraclough. “In the past, the Trader has been interested in avian germ stocks and lyric crystals. I have both of these to trade.”
Azia said, “These are fine goods, indeed. My principal is not interested in avian germ stocks at this time, but lyric crystals… if the Trader has nothing else to offer, that might be a possibility.”
“Might the Trader be interested in other germ stocks, perhaps?”
Corollians, John Shea Velikovsky had told her, were reputed to be hungry for germ stocks. He did not explain why, and she had not asked him. “My principal might be interested in architectural germ stocks,” she said.