It was then that Ethan noticed there were no Tran inside the building itself. Those they had seen entering had stopped in the area enclosed by the two sets of doors, a small lobby lined with windows. There, Tran exchanged packages or held conversations with humans at windows installed for the purpose. The area was kept cool there for them, and tolerably warm for the humans behind the windows. Even so, the Tran there concluded their business hurriedly to rush out into the comforting arctic air outside.
“With… your permission, friend Ethan, friend Skua…” Hunnar staggered erect. Without waiting for Ethan’s acknowledgment, the knight and his two companions turned and stumbled outside. Through the transparent doors, Ethan could see Suaxus sit down hard, holding his head with both hands, while Hunnar and Budjir gulped deep icy breaths and ministered to him.
“I can see where they’d get heat stroke quick enough in here.” September was rapidly divesting himself of his hessavar furs. Ethan didn’t have that problem. He simply slid back his face mask and goggles, plus the hood of his survival suit. The suit itself automatically adjusted for the warmer air inside the building, the suit material being naturally thermosensitive.
They walked to the information grid. Politely, a voice informed them of the portmaster’s name and the location of his office. Directions were displayed on the map set alongside the grid.
A small, olive-skinned man with tightly curled black hair greeted them in the office. He displayed an air of relaxed efficiency. His eyebrows rose slightly at their entrance, otherwise he didn’t appear too surprised at their presence. His gaze stayed mostly on September, which was no surprise at all. Skua had to duck to enter the office.
They were on the second floor of the building. Broad windows opened on side and back, showing the launch pits and the roofs of Arsudun. The contrast of frozen medievality and sleek modernity gave the windows the look of solidos, artificial and unlikely.
“Good morning, gentlesirs, good morning. Carpen Xenaxis, portmaster. We had a report from one of our harbor scouts that a large native vessel with humans aboard was coming in.” He stopped, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes, we were aboard.” Ethan introduced himself and September, then launched into a rapid explanation of their presence on Tran-ky-ky, the failed kidnapping of the du Kanes… and was cut off at that point.
“Just a moment… sorry.” Xenaxis turned to the tridee screen set into one side of his desk, chatted briefly and softly to someone unseen. Then he turned back to them with a pleasant smile.
“It was assumed the du Kanes had died during the misfunction of the lifeboat, which you now tell me was no misfunction. I just reported them alive and well. We’ve had many inquiries. A large number of individuals will be most interested in this news.” Xenaxis appeared suddenly uncertain. “They are alive and well?” Ethan nodded.
“The kidnappers themselves are dead,” September added. “I killed one of ’em myself. If there’s a reward I’d like to lay claim to it.”
“Naturally. That is your right.” The portmaster touched another switch, prepared to make a fresh recording. “If you’ll just give me your name, world of origin, home address and financial code I’m sure we…”
“Actually, that wouldn’t be the fair thing to do.” September gestured at his companion. “It was this here lad who was responsible for most of what happened. He deserves any credit.”
Ethan turned a startled look on September, opened his mouth to comment. An experienced salesman is a specialist in reading expressions. A multitude of meanings were available for interpretation on the big man’s face just then. To his credit, Ethan picked up most of them.
“If there is any kind of reward, I’ll worry about that later.” September relaxed ever so slightly. “The main thing we’re concerned about is getting off this place as fast as possible.”
“I can imagine.” Xenaxis sounded properly sympathetic. “I do not myself find the company of the natives particularly pleasant. One can do business with them, but it is next to impossible to socialize. Besides the differences in temperature each race is accustomed to, they are argumentative and combative by nature.” Ethan said nothing, maintaining a blank expression.
“The local trade is profitable then?” September somehow sounded as if there was more behind his question than just polite conversation.
Xenaxis shrugged. “Keeping the commercial end of this post open is my principal task, sir. There are three large warehouses here in Brass Monkey whose contents change frequently. Of course, I’m only a civil employee, straight salaried.” Ethan thought he detected a note of envy in the portmaster’s voice. “But some companies or individual entrepreneurs are certainly making money off this frozen wasteland.”
“What kind of trade?” Xenaxis shouldn’t find that question suspicious, Ethan thought. It was his business.
“What you’d expect.” The portmaster leaned back in his chair. Ethan heard the faint hiss of posturic compensators. Xenaxis had a bad back, it seemed. But he appeared anxious to talk. New faces were no doubt an infrequent sight in Brass Monkey.
“Mostly luxury goods: art works, carvings, furs, gemstones, handicrafts, some of the most remarkable ivory sculptures you’d ever want to see. The natives look clumsy, but they’re capable of fine work.” Ethan thought of a stavanzer tusk and what a good local artist might make of one.
“You know all about such things, of course,” the portmaster continued. “When a civilization grows as modern as that of the Commonwealth, excellently crafted machinery and the mechanisms necessary for day to day living become cheap. People have a lot of excess credit to dispose of. So they spend on luxuries and art works and other nonessentials.” His chair returned to the vertical, his tone to businesslike.
“As far as your taking passage off-planet, I’m assuming you require shuttle space for the both of you and the du Kanes.”
“And one other, a teacher, name of Williams,” Ethan said.
“Five. Should be able to manage that, given your unusual circumstances. I don’t know a shipmaster who’d refuse you space.” He turned to his tridee screen again and pushed buttons. “I’ll put out notification of your survival to anyone you want to know about it, place it on the outpost bill. You’ve probably both got friends and relatives who’ll be happy to hear you’re still around. Maybe you’re not as important to others as are the du Kanes, but you’re important to yourselves.”
Despite his possible dislike of the Tran, Ethan decided he liked the little portmaster very much. “I was told by Colette du Kane to use the code 22RR. She said it might help you expedite matters.”
“If that’s the family financial code, I’m sure it will,” agreed Xenaxis. He checked a hidden readout. “The next ship due in stop orbit is the freighter Palamas. I’ll make your boarding arrangements via satellite relay as soon as the Palamas is in range.” He sounded apologetic. “We’re not nearly big or important enough here to qualify for a deep-space particle beam. The Palamas is a border-run ship, if I remember right. But she eventually orbits Drax IV, and you can make passage to anywhere from there.”
“When’s she due in?” Ethan was startled by the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.
“Oh, six fifteen on the twenty-fourth.” Xenaxis studied the two blank faces a moment, then smiled slightly. “Sorry. I forgot you probably haven’t been aware of local time since you touched down.”
“A couple of us had chronometers,” Ethan explained. “They didn’t survive the crash. Those that did didn’t survive the climate. Mine survived both, but didn’t survive…” He held out his right hand, showed the portmaster where the gash in his survival suit had been patched from hand to shoulder.