The first student expelled in the four-generation history of the school had received a lukewarm reception at home. His father had tried to understand, but it was obvious that he did not believe Norvis peRahn's story. After all, would an Earthman lie? And where were the notebooks that Norvis claimed to have kept? Why weren't they in his locker?
Norvis had tried to explain that they had been stolen—taken by the Earthmen while he was out of his room, watching the ceremony. But his explanation had fallen on deaf ears.
Grandfather Kiv peGanz had been positively icy, but just. The gruff old man had given him money for the trip, and asked him to take himself as far from Gelusar as he could get. There were no jobs open for young men who had publicly disgraced themselves, their family, and their Clan by calling an Earthman a liar and trying to take credit away from a deserving fellow student.
And so, alone and more than a little bewildered, Norvis had left Gelusar, all his proud hopes ended.
The road to Vashcor was not a short one to begin with, but even the easy loping gait of the deest he was riding could not soothe the anger that boiled up inside him, and that anger only seemed to make the journey longer.
Why had the Earthmen lied? Why had the notebook been stolen? And why, above all, had the secret been given to that runted little blockhead, Dran peNiblo Sesom? Obviously, Dran had thought that the hormone process had been invented by himself. Smith had, therefore, been giving the little hugl information from Norvis' notes for nearly a year, and making the fumblebrained Dran think it was his own work. But why? Was it because his great uncle was Grandfather Golis peGolis Sesom, one of the most powerful of the Elders? But what difference would that make?
None of it made any sense. The only thing that made sense was his deep hatred for the Earthman, Smith. And the other Earthmen, too. McKay and the others must have known what Smith was doing. They must have known that Norvis peRahn would denounce the theft—otherwise, why would two strong Earthmen have been standing in readiness, prepared to drag him away from the ceremony as soon as he had opened up?
For some reason known only to themselves, the Earthmen had contrived to ruin his life. They had stolen the secret that would have made him famous, and they had stigmatized him in the eyes of the world forever. Why? What went on in the alien brains behind those strange eyes?
Norvis peRahn turned the problem over and over in his mind during the long journey, but he never seemed to come up with an answer.
The Grand Harbor of Vashcor shimmered greenly in the diffuse illumination of the Great Light. Here and there, like queerly geometrical trees, were the tall masts of seagoing vessels, and dotted among the bigger ships were swarms of smaller boats rolling lazily on the incoming tide.
Norvis peRahn watched one ship as her sails caught the wind at the harbor mouth and she moved majestically out into the open sea. The Grand Harbor was almost ideally sheltered, surrounded as it was by high cliffs which protected the bay from the wind. The little paddle-wheeled steam tags pulled the bigger ships out to the harbor mouth, past the cliffs, to where the wind could push them out to sea. Then they would wait until other ships came into the channel and tug them into port when their sails dropped and sagged idly in the still air of the harbor.
It was almost unbearably hot, even for Norvis, who was used to this sort of weather. The humidity made his body hair cling to his skin; he felt sticky and uncomfortable. He also felt hungry.
He wasn't quite sure whether he should eat immediately or wait until he got even hungrier. He was beginning to wish he hadn't been in such a hurry to sell his deest. After eighteen days, his money was getting low, and he hadn't found a decent job yet. Oh, there were plenty of jobs around, if a man was willing to do just any sort of thing. Street cleaning, stable sweeping, bilge washing, hull-scraping work at the drydocks— none of them appealed to Norvis, and none of them offered any chance of advancement. Still, if things got much worse, he might have to take on a menial job just to eat and pay the rent on the small hole-in-the-wall room he had found.
The trouble was, all the decent jobs were pretty well sewed up by the guilds. Of course, the letter he had from Elder Grandfather Kiv peGanz Brajjyd might allow him to get past the guild barrier—but he thought not. It would have, ordinarily, but the news of his expulsion had already preceded him to Vashcor. No one would want anything to do with him when they found out who he was.
There was one other way. It was rough work, but if a man had brains, he could get somewhere eventually. Norvis watched the flying sea-lizards floating lazily in the faint updrafts and thought the proposition over.
Finally, he took a three-piece coin from his shorts pocket and flipped it into the air. The bronze disc twinkled as it spun up and dropped back into his hand.
If it came down "prayers," he'd try job-hunting for another five days; if it came down "price," he'd go to the Shipmaster's.
He grabbed it out of the air and slapped it down on the back of his arm. He looked down, wondering if he'd see the lettering of the prayer inscription or his graven figure 3.
The number looked up at him from below the triangular hole in the center of the coin. It was "price."
The Shipmaster's was a huge, square building that had been erected a thousand years before. The stone, like that of any other ancient building, was weathered and pitted, and the stairs that led up to the main entrance were deeply worn by the passing of hundreds of thousands of shod feet.
The man behind the desk marked Mercantile Enlistments was wrinkled and old; his facial down was silvery with age.
"Good day, Ancient One," Norvis said politely. "May the Great Light bless you."
"Bless you, too, son," said the oldster sharply. "What do you want?"
"Enlistment in the Mercantile, Ancient. Any openings?"
The old man narrowed his eyes. "There's always openings for a man who likes the sea. What's your name?"
"Norvis peKrin Dmorno," Norvis lied. The Dmorno Clan was large and mostly concentrated in the far west; it was a safe alias.
"Can you read and write?''
"A little," Norvis admitted cautiously. He didn't want to admit that he had had much schooling, but it might be difficult to completely conceal the fact that he was literate.
"I have an opening for a scrubhand, usual four-year terms. Do you know what that means?"
"Stay on four years. Money is paid at the end of the enlistment. If I skip ship, I forfeit all rights to the money."
"That's it," said the old man. He pushed a piece of paper and pen across the desk. "Sign the bottom line.''
Norvis glanced over the paper and then looked up. "This is an eight-year contract. I only want four, Ancient One."
The old man pulled the paper back. "You can read, I see. All right, try this one." He pushed out another paper. This time, Norvis signed.
It was an old trick; if a man couldn't read, they'd hand him the longer term contract. He would think that he was free after four years and come to the office to collect his pay; often he'd miss his ship. Then—no money.
Norvis knew that his first ship would be going to the Bronze Islands for metal cargoes. They wouldn't take a chance on giving a new man a ride around the coast; he simply might be trying to get back home again for nothing. They couldn't let him skip ship at his home port after only one voyage.
The old man gave him a slip of paper. "Go back to Room Thirty-four. You'll be assigned to the Balthar, under Captain Del peFenn Vyless."