“Lost it to a stavanzer.”
“You mean those shipsized herbivores that weigh a couple of hundred tons each? Never seen one myself, only tridees taken by the scientific survey.”
“We had to turn one around.”
“Yes.” Xenaxis eyed them both respectfully. “Palamas should break out of space-plus in a couple of days. Leave another two days, three at most for her to decelerate and insert. I’m sorry I can’t offer you passage out of here any sooner. We don’t even have a habitat station I can ferry you up to. But if I can break away from my own duties, I’ve a request to make.”
“What’s that?”
Rising and walking around his desk, the portmaster moved to the side window, stared out across the roofs of Arsudun. Snow skipped like fat white fleas across the insulated transparency. “I can see the masts of the ship you arrived in from here. It’s much bigger than anything we’ve recorded so far. I’d love to have a close look at it.”
“Talk to her Captain, Ta-hoding,” Ethan advised him. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to show you around. He’s proud of his ship.”
“He has reason to be.” Xenaxis turned reluctantly from the window. “I suppose I’d better get back to work. Forms to fill out.” He made a face.
“If you like, you can stay the five days until departure here in the post. We’ll make room for you.”
“Can’t speak for the others.” September was moving toward the door. “Myself, I think I’ll stay with our Trannish friends.”
“As you like.” Xenaxis resumed his seat, turned toward Ethan. “Just a moment, Mr. Fortune. As I recall, there are two or three small cases consigned to you waiting in Number Three warehouse.”
“My sample goods. One of them contains a dozen or so small, inert-element heaters. A year ago I’d have given a thousand credits for one. I guess I’ll try and sell a few over the next couple of days. Thanks for reminding me.” Odd, he mused as they exited from the portmaster’s office, how he’d completely forgotten his sale goods. For some inexplicable reason, things such as profit margin, customer acceptance and territory expansion seemed childish to him now. Had Tran-ky-ky modified more than his tolerance to cold weather?
II
WHEN THEY REACHED THE first floor, September put a restraining hand on Ethan’s shoulder, halted him. “Sir Hunnar and his companions won’t mind waitin’ a bit longer, feller-me-lad.” He pointed down the corridor, in the direction away from the main entrance. “Let’s go have a gander at your samples.”
“Skua, I’ve got so much fighting for attention in my skull right now I really couldn’t care less about those cases.”
“I don’t want you to open up shop in front of me, lad,” September spoke softly. “I’ve another reason for wantin’ to get inside that warehouse.”
Ethan eyed him curiously, but the big man had already turned and was moving down the hallway. Ethan hurried to keep up with him.
“Should be a heated tunnel taking us out to the storage complex, once we find the right lift. Warehousing should be above surface like everything else.”
Warehouse Three was a utilitarian rectangle of windowless metal. September was right about its location. Despite the cold, it was cheaper to build above ground on Tran-ky-ky. Easier to put up a prefabricated structure that could withstand the wind than to excavate the permafrost and frozen ground.
The warehouse was insulated but not well heated inside. Ethan would have been shivering without his survival suit. A glance at a wall thermometer indicated the interior temperature was just above freezing. Outside, that would amount to a severe heat wave.
Two guards were posted at the warehouse doorway. When pressed for an explanation of their rather incongruous presence, one explained readily. “There’ve been stories about the natives stealing anything they can get their paws on.” The man looked indifferent. “It’s a cold job, but what the hell ain’t on this world?”
“Have you ever caught a local stealing?” Ethan couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice, and the guard noted it.
“Hey, look, I don’t make policy, friend. I just enforce it, me and Jolene here.” The other guard put a self-important hand on her beamer. “Let’s see your authorization slip.”
“Call the postmaster.” Ethan wasn’t feeling too cooperative. Maybe the Tran weren’t the most outgoing people in the galaxy, but it didn’t seem to him that anyone here was making much of an effort to learn otherwise.
“Oh, dierd! What’s your name or crate code?” Ethan told him. “Yeah, your stuff’s about four rows back, then turn right. Section twenty D.” He stepped aside. September gave him a pleasant smile, his coguard a larger one. She didn’t smile back.
“I don’t understand this,” Ethan grumbled as they made their way back through the tall shelves of crates and packages. “All the Tran we’ve encountered have been honest; in fact, I never heard Hunnar or anyone else even mention thievery in Wannome.”
“They haven’t had sufficient interaction with the corrupting influence of an acquisitive civilization,” September commented half-seriously. They turned right at the fourth row.
Ethan found his three small seamless plastic crates. Only his sealkey could debond the molecular structure of the blue material forming the square shapes. The house of Malaika overseals looked intact and untampered with.
“I can pick them up anytime, Skua. What did you want to look at in here?”
“I’m already looking at it, lad.” September’s gaze was taking in the ceiling-high stacks of crates. “I’ve seen what I wanted to. Time to go.”
They left the chilly chamber, passing under the hostile eyes of the guards. September didn’t speak until they were nearly back to the main port entrance.
“Something bothered me about Xenaxis’ comments concernin’ the local trade,” he explained. “Now that I’ve seen inside, it bothers me more. According to the markings on those crates, the trade going on here strikes me as awfully one-sided.”
“One-sided how?”
“Lad, those crates back there were new moldings, and the markings on them confirmed it. There’s a lot more going off this world than is comin’ in. Course, it’s hard to measure how many duralloy or ceramisteel knives equal one carving. But I don’t think the Tran know the value of their exports. How much is a hundred liters of water worth to a man in a desert? For that matter, how much is a hundred liters of dirt worth to a man in an ocean?
“Someone’s making a lot more than an honest profit here, feller-me-lad. Your packages were the only ones I saw in the whole place with a merchant family crest on ’em. Someone else, maybe unlicensed, is running a fine little monopoly here, and cheating the Tran in the bargain. Of course, they don’t think they’re getting cheated, because they don’t know any better. But I know, and it makes me mad, lad. These folks are my friends.”
“Our friends,” Ethan said quietly.
“Sure, our friends… for another five days.”
“So what can we do about it? No, wait. I do represent the House of Malaika. I’ve never met the old man himself, but from what I know he’s a bit more honest than many of the family heads. The injustice of the situation here wouldn’t move him to action. Profits would. I’m sure he’d be willing to come in and make the Tran a better deal.”
“I’m thinking of something a bit different from spreading the lucre, lad. Tell you about it later.” With that the giant lapsed into introspective silence as they made their way toward the entrance.
Just before reaching the doors they passed a pair of thranx. The meter-tall insects who with mankind co-dominated the Commonwealth were bundled almost beyond recognition in survival suits designed for their eight-limbed bodies. Even within the building they wore specially woven fur-lined sleeves over their feathery antennae. Apparently they were willing to forgo a loss of sensitivity for acceptable warmth.